Fresco
by Eleanor Pepperland
Summary: A school for the arts is anything but ordinary. But when an extraordinary painter emerges from the new batch along with five other greats in their respective fields, thus begins a grueling battle of fame to become the next great artistic legend. AU, BTW.
1. Prologue

**Hooray! **

**A H.I.V.E. AU by me!**

**Have mercy. **

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

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**-Prologue-**

**It's the year 2021, and The International School of The Arts have been producing greats in the art fields for a hundred or so years. They take the best from every country from six fields such as drama, literature, singing, dancing, fashion, and painting. Some are enrolled by their families; others are put forth by teachers or guardians; and for the most prestigious, handpicked by Dr. Nero, the founder of I.S.A. But ISA isn't a regular school: the ISA doesn't just commend the best at the end of their education; the ISA refills the empty shoes of the greats with their alumnae. All of the greats are entitled to a prize; the title as the next great artisan and a million of their currency. Worst comes to worst, the not-so-great budding artisans get sent home to their native countries, empty-handed. **

**All those enrolled should be seventeen or sixteen, and upon enrollment able to submit an essay stating his/her strengths and weaknesses, and a general information sheet. The assessment for the skills classes comes from the essay, the info sheet, and a general exhibition on the first day. **

**But when everyone wants to be the six great artisans, who can you really trust?**


	2. Billie Joe Armstrong

**The actual first chapter!**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**Enjoy!**

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_The little boy ran across the green pasture. He excitedly stopped in the middle, eager to meet his friend. This friend had white hair and blue eyes. They were both about seven years old.  
_

_"How are you, my friend?" asked the little boy. _

_"Fine, I could say," replied his friend. _

_"You seem sad."_

_"I am sad."_

_"Why?"_

_"My mother isn't allowing me to talk to you anymore."_

_"Why?"_

_"She thinks you're a bad person."_

_"Why? I'm not bad, am I?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"I'm not."_

_"She thinks if I talk to you I'd become bad."_

_"That's weird."_

_"She's my mother. Of course she's weird."_

_The boy laughed. _

_"Well you are quite strange."_

_"Correct, my friend, I am unusual."  
_

_"And that's why we're friends!"_

_"Exactly why we're friends."_

Wing woke to sound of his little sister's stereo, playing Mozart. He begrudgingly got up and went over to his own stereo, mumbling something about no good taste.

He switched the stereo to play Green Day at the highest volume, which was usually song speak for "Your Mozart is ruining my mojo."

His sister's music stopped, and so he stopped playing as well.

He went out from his room. His 13-year-old sister, the one who was playing Mozart, Sayori, shot him a glare and went to the table.

"_Ohayo,_ big brother," she said coldly.

He nodded tersely and went to check the mail tray in their small Tokyo apartment.

"Mail's here," he said, leafing through the envelopes.

He turned to face his mother and father.

"_Ohayo,_" he said to them. They nodded. His mother, a beautiful woman with kind eyes and a sweet disposition. This was Mizuki Fanchu. His father, a disciplinarian. Isamu Fanchu.

He continued to leaf through the mail when something official looking caught his eye.

He brought the envelope over to the table.

"Father-," he began.

"Wing," said his mother softly.

"Go open it," said his father.

He carefully opened the official-looking envelope. Inside was a piece of important paper.

"_'Dear Mr. Fanchu, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as one of the representatives of Japan in The International School of The Arts for this batch._' Did you enroll me, father?"

"No. You have been selected."

"Oh."

"Congratulations, Wing!"

"Thank you, mother."

"What does that mean, brother? Will you leave us?" asked Sayori.

"Not forever, as far as the letter says."

"Oh. Good luck, brother."

"Thank you, Sayori."

"Make us proud, son."

"Yes father."

"Good luck, Wing."

"Thank you mother."

He excused himself and went back in his room. He couldn't believe his eyes. The actual ISA, selected him? He couldn't sing. He was tone deaf, as far as he could hear from himself. He certainly couldn't dance. He had two left feet! He couldn't act either. Or write. He couldn't paint to save his soul! What did the ISA find in him that was enough for their standards?

He shook off that thought and just was thankful he got there in the first place.

He put the envelope down on his desk and went back out to eat.

He had to accept the truth eventually.


	3. Fred Astaire

**Second real chapter people!**

**It's Christmas break so I'm free!**

**I've only got a week left. :(  
**

**I'll have to deal with it.**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire.**

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**_tick tock _

_tick tock_

_tick tock_

_tick tock_

Shelby leaned against her headboard. Life is so boring, she thought. She tied up her laces. She then went downstairs.

"BOOO!"

Shelby jumped and found her little brother Austin and picked him up. He was only four, after all.

"What have I told you about attempting to scare me?"

The little boy jumped and ran off.

She tried to find her mother, who was nonexistent.

She knocked on her older sister's door.

"Jess," she said, knocking.

Her older sister Jessica opened the door.

"Have you seen mom?"

"Nope. Come in for a minute, Shel."

She came into her sister Jessica's room and sat on the chaise.

"This came in for you," said Jess, handing Shelby an envelope.

"What sort of joke is this?"

"It's not a joke, Shelby Brooklyn Trinity."

"It seems like one, Jessica Jacqueline."

"Just open it."

"_'Dear Ms. Trinity, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to represent The United States of America in The International School of The Arts for this batch._' You sure this isn't a joke, Jess?"

"It's official, Shel. You're in."

"For what?"

"Dancing is my guess."

"What? I can't dance, Jess. You know that."

"You're like frickin' Fred Astaire when you're dancing! How can you say that?"

"Fred Astaire?"

"Yeah, Fred Astaire. The greatest."

"I'm not great."

"Yeah you are! Ever since, you've been the dancer in the family, not me or Austin."

"Nice of you to lie, Jess."

"You very well know I'm not lying!"

"Whatever. I'll just attend to not disappoint any of you."

"Have it your way, Shel. You'll learn that you ARE the best."

"Right. And pigs fly."

Shelby stormed out of her sister's room. She held the letter in disbelief. She knew she had some dance genes in her, but not great dance genes.

Hopefully, she'd be able to become less, uh, disbelieving of her raw talent.

Hopefully.

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**Woohoo!**

**Fred Astaire!**

**Rate and Review please!  
**


	4. Audrey Hepburn

**Yay!**

**Actual progress!**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**Read on!**

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_30 August: Call Backs for Wilting Flower!_

_31 August: Audition for Les Miserables!_

Laura looked at her schedules. Acting was a hobby her mother suggested she do, and she fell in love with it instantly.

But since when was a title of a play _Wilting Flower_?

Since now.

She leafed through her schedules.

Then she settled on learning that script for Les Mis.

She was bored.

Eternally bored.

Bored to tears.

Bored without question.

She then fell asleep.

Charlotte Brand knocked on her daughter's door. No answer. She knocked again. Still no answer. Clutching an envelope in one hand, she opened the door.

There she was, asleep on her desk. Peaceful. She shook her daughter gently. This was more important than letting Laura sleep.

This would change her imminent future.

"Laura, dear, you got into the ISA."

"What? What's the ISA?"

"The International School of The Arts, dear."

"Oh really?"

"Aye, Laura, dear."

"That's great mother."

"Quick. Prepare your requirements."

"Okay mother."

"Good girl."

Laura shook her head. The ISA? Weren't those the great art schools? That means she got in!

"I GOT IN!!!!"

She screamed ecstatically.

Charlotte smiled.

This was always what Laura wanted.

Now she got it.

Good.

Because if anybody was a good actress, it was her daughter.

Beautiful, smart, witty, and determined.

That was her Laura.

The next Audrey Hepburn, possibly.

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**You might've noticed how short these are. **

**I'm just very brief about them before their ISA lives. **

**Please R&R!  
**


	5. Coco Chanel

**You might have noticed how short these are.**

**Just wait until they arrive at the planes, then it'll be long-ish.**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**Read on.**

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**_drip...drip...drip_

Claire stared at her bloody finger.

_drip...drip...drip_

She'd punctured it with the needle on the sewing machine.

She continued to stare at it for a minute, then sopped it up with toilet paper.

She'd been sewing her elder sister Stella's wedding dress that she herself had designed.

She remembered designing the dress.

It had come to her in a dream, after a day of searching for her sister's perfect dress, and going to designers who didn't share Stella's vision of a dream dress.

Mind you, Stella Renee Haruno was very picky.

She finished the dress, which she'd been working on for almost a month.

And the wedding was tomorrow.

Stella pressured her to finish.

Katsu Takahashi, the man Stella Haruno was engaged to, was pressuring Claire to finish the dress as well, simply because his fiancee' wanted it done.

And Clarissa Alison Haruno did not work well under pressure.

She shook, she trembled, and she crumbled, yet she finished the dress on time.

It was a work of magic and pure artistry. It had a simple skirt design with a fitted bodice, yet what made it hard to finish was the long brocade of diamonds that Stella did not ask for.

Katsu did. He wanted his bride to shine like the star she is named after.

And what he didn't know was how hard it was to manually sew in diamond after diamond.

But lo and behold, she finished it and beat the deadline.

She knocked on Stella's door first, to tell her she finished the dress.

Her reaction was simple.

"Ohmigod! You finished it? I so love you, Claire."

She then knocked on her father Daisuke's door to his study. Daisuke Haruno's reaction was also simple.

"Good. Tell your mother."

She was about to knock on her mother Kathryn's door, but Kathryn Haruno beat her to it and opened the door and pulled her in.

"Clarissa Alison Archer-Haruno, I have some very good news for you."

"What is it mom?"

"You got into ISA."

"THE I.S.A.? Oh. My. God."

"Yes, Claire, you're in!" said Kathryn excitedly.

Claire raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't enroll me, did you?"

"NO! Here, look at the letter."

She took the letter from her mother's hands.

She read aloud.

""_Dear Ms. Haruno, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to be one of the representatives of Japan in The International School of The Arts in this batch._'"

"See what I mean, Claire? You're in!"

"But why?"

"They probably heard that you were good at putting outfits together and designing!"

"Mom. I'm not that good. I read fashion magazines like any other girl."

"Clarissa, in my eyes, you're the next Coco Chanel."

"THE Coco Chanel?"

"Yes, Claire."

"Mom..."

"It's okay. Now prepare those requirements."

"Yes mother."

Claire took the envelope in her hands and started to prepare her info sheet and essay.

All she had to do now was think of life at ISA.

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**It's long-ish!**

**Woohoo!**

**R&R, now!  
**


	6. William Shakespeare

**Closer and closer we come, reader bunnies, CLOSER TO A REAL PLOT!**

**Here we come.**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**Read on.**

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**The stars lean down to kiss you  
And I lie awake and miss you  
Pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere_

_'Cause I'll doze off safe and soundly  
But I'll miss your arms around me  
I'd send a postcard to you, dear  
'Cause I wish you were here_

_I'll watch the night turn light-blue  
But it's not the same without you  
Because it takes two to whisper quietly_

_The silence isn't so bad  
'Til I look at my hands and feel sad  
'Cause the spaces between my fingers  
Are right where yours fit perfectly_

_I'll find repose in new ways  
Though I haven't slept in two days  
'Cause cold nostalgia  
Chills me to the bone_

_But drenched in vanilla twilight  
I'll sit on the front porch all night  
Waist-deep in thought because  
When I think of you I don't feel so alone_

_I don't feel so alone, I don't feel so alone_

_As many times as I blink  
I'll think of you tonight  
I'll think of you tonight_

_When violet eyes get brighter  
And heavy wings grow lighter  
I'll taste the sky and feel alive again_

_And I'll forget the world that I knew  
But I swear I won't forget you  
Oh, if my voice could reach  
Back through the past  
I'd whisper in your ear  
Oh darling I wish you were here_

Innokentiy banged her head on her desk. She tapped her fingers on the table. She was sitting in front of her laptop, trying to finish a chapter. Even music couldn't help her write. She seriously needed to finish this.

She stood up and bounded down the stairs. She was in her home, in Moscow, Russia. Her mother sat at the breakfast island, taking in a bowl of Borscht.

"Innokentiy," said her mother. The woman had golden blond hair and sky blue eyes. Nikita Thomas.

"Yes, MaMa?" asked Kent.

"Writing again?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure you'll finish the chapter."

"I hope so, MaMa."

"Well, you can ask your papa to help you," said Nikita.

"I'll do that, MaMa."

Kent went over to her father, who was in the sitting room, in front of the lit fireplace. Stephen Thomas.

"Dad," said Kent.

"Innokentiy. What can I possibly help you with?"

"You see, dad, I'm trying to think of what would happen if say a character got kidnapped."

"Well you could have an exchange between the kidnapper and the parents of the character, to discuss ransom, for example."

"Thanks dad."

"Ah, Innokentiy," Stephen began.

"Yes father?"

"Read this aloud for me please."

He handed her an envelope that had been opened previously.

"'_Dear Ms. Thomas, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to represent Russia in The International School of The Arts for this batch_.'"

Stephen smiled at his only daughter.

She returned the smile and hugged her father.

"Thank you for enrolling me."

"I did not enroll you, Innokentiy, they recognized you for your skill and selected you."

"Wow."

"Go tell your mother."

She nodded and went back to the breakfast island.

"MaMa, guess who got into The International School for The Arts."

"Congratulations, Innokentiy! I knew my little Shakespeare would get in eventually!"

"Thank you, mum."

"Go and prepare your requirements."

"Yes mum."

She ran up to her bedroom and closed the file which contained the story she was working on and opened a new document and began to write her essay and info sheet.

All she could do was think of the ISA....

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**Yay! **

**Long-ish chapter!**

**R&R!  
**


	7. Michelangelo

**This is the last chapter before they all meet!**

**Yes!**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire.**

**WOOHOO!**

**

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**_Doni Tondo? Check._

_The Torment of St. Anthony? Check._

_Mona Lisa? Check._

_Sfumato? Check._

_The Scream? Check._

_Starry Night? Check._

_The Road Menders? Check._

_Inner Storm 2? Check._

_Sunset at Lavacourt? Check._

_Impression Sunrise? Check._

_Burial at Orrans? Check. _

_The Stone Breakers? Check._

_Misty Morning? Check._

_Ball at Moulin dela Galette? Check._

_Le Berceau? Check._

_Canal Le Grand? Check. _

_Son of Man? Check. _

_Not to be Reproduced? Check._

_Persistence of Memory? Check._

Otto ticked off each painting from his list. This was his job, after all, to keep tabs of the paintings in this museum. Even if he was just seventeen. He liked his job; if you worked here, you got to admire the paintings for free. And the entrance fee is worth a pretty penny just to look at great art.

He was getting paid to look after paintings.

Which he liked. He examined the brushstrokes of the artist, which he used to perfect the way he painted.

He was no artist, that was certain. Painting for him was just a hobby. He worked at a museum.

He looked around, and the man who paid him, Mr. Arkwright, came walking to him.

Mr. Arkwright was around forty, balding, and had great appreciation for art. He was the curator.

"Mr. Arkwright," said Otto.

"Otto, this arrived for you," said Mr. Arkwright.

He handed Otto an envelope.

"It's from the I.S.A.," said Mr. Arkwright.

"Sir, I'm going to have to quit my job."

"Why Otto?"

"I'll be gone for five years, sir. The I.S.A. selected me."

"Heavens no! I'll have David to fill in for you."

"Alright sir."

"Good. Now go home, Otto, I can take it from here."

"Yes sir."

Otto went back to the employee room, got his rucksack, and walked home. It wasn't that far from the museum. A small London apartment which he paid for himself.

He opened the light in his flat, put his keys down on the key tray, and put his rucksack on the couch. He went over to the breakfast table, and read the letter again.

_Dear Mr. Malpense, we are glad to inform you that you have been selected to represent England in The International School of The Arts in this year's batch._

Otto prepared his requirements, ate dinner, and went off to sleep. One phrase stayed put in his mind.

_The International School of The Arts_

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**Ooh, art. **

**LOL. **

**Those are actual paintings, btw.**

**R&R!**


	8. Oddly Artistic

**They finally get to the planes!!!**

**At long last!**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**Read on. **

**

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**Wing was leaving today. For I.S.A. He'd never thought this would actually happen. What was more surprising that Japan had more than one representative. He secretly wondered who.

"Big brother, what do you think ISA looks like?" asked Sayori.

"I don't know. They say it's a whole island."

"A whole island for one school? That must be exciting."

"I'm not sure if it's true."

"I sure hope it is, because I want to get there too, brother."

He tweaked his little sister's nose.

"I'm sure you will."

"Goodbye, brother."

"Goodbye, Sayori."

"And good luck!"

Wing nodded and pulled his suitcase to the jumbo jet that out-sized even the Boeing 747 beside it. It had the letters ISA on its side. In one hand he pulled the suitcase, in the other an envelope that contained his requirements. There was an escalator that brought you up to the plane. He was greeted by an attendant who told him to bring his luggage with him to his compartment where there would be shelves. He nodded and found a compartment for about six people. It was near the cockpit, he thought, since the views of the airport were clear. He put the suitcase in the shelf above him and sat near the window. The shelf was large too. He pulled out his requirements once more and proofread them one more time to check for anything wrong. He didn't bother check his essay, because he knew it was mediocre and displayed that he was no writer.

_Name: Wing Masaru Yamamoto-Fanchu_

_Age: 17_

_Birthday: April 27, 1992_

_Birthplace: Tokyo, Japan_

_Country: Japan_

_Parents: Mizuki Yamamoto-Fanchu & Isamu Fanchu_

_Mode of Enrollment: Selected_

_Sibling/s: One. Sayori Yamamoto-Fanchu_

_Skills: Singing, plays guitar and piano_

_Specialty: Singing_

_Other Relevant Information:  
-Has been recognized for skills_

Wing put the paper back in the envelope. This was his key to the ISA. As much as he wanted to deny it, he wanted to be the one to come out of the ISA as the next Billie Joe Armstrong with a million yen to his name. Not to mention all the fame and fortune that came with that coveted title.

A girl with black hair and blue eyes dressed in something fresh out of a fashion magazine came into the compartment. She was Japanese, from the look of her features. She sat opposite him.

"Oh, I didn't mean to intrude, it's just that this is the only one left."

"It's fine."

"Thanks. Could I see your info sheet? I'll let you see mine if you let me see yours."

She seemed nice. Friendly. This would work. He needed to at least find some allies in the ISA. He pulled the paper out once more as she did the same. They exchanged.

_Name: Clarissa Alison Archer-Haruno_

_Age: 17_

_Birthday: January 1, 1992_

_Birthplace: Okinawa, Japan_

_Country: Japan_

_Parents: Kathryn Archer-Haruno & Daisuke Haruno_

_Mode of Enrollment: Selected_

_Sibling/s: One. Stella Archer-Haruno_

_Skills: Fashion design, singing_

_Specialty: Fashion design_

_Other Relevant Information  
-Has designed and showcased an entire collection of designs  
-Heiress to Archer-Haruno group of companies_

Wing returned her info sheet and she did the same.

"I don't go by Clarissa, by the way, I go by Claire."

"That's nice."

"So you're the other Japanese representative."

"Yeah."

"Well, it would be fun if we both won."

"It would. We're in two different fields anyway, so we could each have one million yen."

"That would be nice. What would you do with that money anyway, Wing?"

"Most of it will be used to help my family out, don't get me wrong, we're fine. Just to help them out. Then the rest will be put to savings."

"I'd just put it to savings."

"But you don't need the money, right? You're heiress to a whole group of companies."

"But that's my parent's money. And since my sister's getting married, she's getting most of the fortune."

"So your sister's getting married?"

"Yeah. She's actually marrying into another group of companies so my dad can use her to create a joint company with them."

"So your dad's a businessman?"

"He's all business."

"Oh. You don't mind me asking, but is it fun being filthy rich?"

"It's not all glitz and glamour. You have to go to all those boring functions where all they talk about is the stock market and the number of shares they have."

"That does sound boring."

They laughed. They felt the jet take to the air.

"So I hear the views are great from here."

"Claire, the views here are amazing."

"Well I don't think that's so amazing," she said, gesturing to the now sleet covered window.

"It doesn't seem so amazing, does it?"

"I guess it's all in the imagination, Wing."

They laughed once more. She was fun, outspoken, and carefree. She seemed to be a nice candidate for a friend.

A girl knocked on the door of the compartment. Claire opened it.

"Uh, hi, could I just please stay here? The others are kind of full," said the girl, her British accent obvious.

He was sure this wasn't England yet.

"Yeah," Claire replied. The girl had blinding platinum blond hair and grey eyes, and she was wearing a coat. Claire let her sit down beside her.

"Hi! I'm Claire," said Claire, extending her hand to the girl. The girl took off her black glove to reveal a very pale hand. She shook Claire's hand, and said simply,

"Kent. Russia."

"Oh, so that's why the window got obscured with sleet."

"But you're Russian, right? Why with the accent?" asked Wing.

"My mum's Russian and my dad's English. He rubbed off on me, though I speak Russian fluently."

"Could I see your info sheet? We'll let you see ours," said Claire, nudging Wing to take out his info sheet.

Kent nodded and took out a piece of paper. The three of them exchanged.

_Name: Innokentiy Madeleine Volkov-Thomas_

_Age: 17_

_Birthday: May 11, 1992_

_Birthplace: Moscow, Russia_

_Country: Russia_

_Parents: Nikita Volkov-Thomas & Stephen Thomas_

_Mode of Enrollment: Selected_

_Sibling/s: None. _

_Skills: Literary arts, singing_

_Specialty: Literary arts_

_Other Relevant Information  
-Has written and finished 5 novels.  
_

"That's a nice name, Kent," said Wing.

"It's really a boy's name in my country," she replied.

"'Literary arts'? That's a funny name for something as simple as writing," Claire noted.

"Well everybody pads up their requirements, right? I just wanted to keep them guessing what literary arts meant."

"That's cool."

Wing noticed that she seemed a bit odd. But he supposed every writer was a bit odd, since that keeps their work interesting. She seemed odd, though not the kind of geeky, nerdy, dorky odd, the kind of odd that made her artistic. She kept quiet after that, staring out the window.

The jet took to the air again. Minutes later they then felt land beneath the plane's feet, signaling that they arrived somewhere else rather than the ISA. A boy with peculiar white hair and blue eyes walked into the compartment, sat beside Kent, and looked at her. Not the sort of look that he liked her, the sort of look that said he was taking a mental image of her facial features. Kent looked at the boy.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," the boy replied.

"Kent, Russia," she said, extending her hand.

"Otto, England."

"Wing, Japan."

"Claire, Japan."

They instinctively exchanged info sheets.

_Name: Otto Buonarroti-Malpense_

_Age: 17_

_Birthday: July 7, 1992_

_Birthplace: London, England_

_Parents: N/A_

_Mode of Enrollment: Selected  
_

_Sibling/s: None. _

_Skills: Painting, singing_

_Specialty: Painting_

_Other Relevant Information  
-Employed at The Blake Museum_

"You're an orphan," said Kent softly.

"If you're an orphan, how did you find out about your birthday, your middle name, and your birthplace?" asked Claire.

"I was told of all those details by Mr. Arkwright, the curator at the museum and the man who helped raised me."

"The Blake Museum holds a lot of great art. Was that why you liked painting?" Wing asked.

"Somewhat. I work as a monitor for all the paintings."

"That doesn't seem very exciting," said Claire earnestly, returning the info sheet to Otto.

"Some find it boring. I like to think of it as an all-access pass to great art."

"That's one way to look at it," said Wing.

"Are you Italian?" asked Kent.

"I dunno. All Mr. Arkwright said was that was my name."

"That's the same surname Michelangelo had," Kent pointed out.

"I don't think I'm related to one of the great artists of the Renaissance."

"You never know," said Kent.

_They seem to get along well_, thought Wing, _since the writer paints words with her pen and the artist paints great art with his brush_.

The jet took to the air. Now a redhead walked in and sat beside Wing.

"Laura, Scotland," she said, extending her hand.

"Wing, Japan."

"Claire, Japan."

"Kent, Russia."

"Otto, England."

"Could I see your info sheets? I'll let you see mine."

They exchanged info sheets.

_Name: Laura Slaine MacFarlane-Brand_

_Age: 16_

_Birthday: March 15, 1993_

_Birthplace: Edinburgh, Scotland_

_Parents: Charlotte MacFarlane-Brand & Coinneach Brand_

_Mode of Enrollment: Selected  
_

_Sibling/s: None. _

_Skills: Acting, singing_

_Specialty: Acting_

_Other Relevant Information  
-Has starred in 50 major plays/productions_

"You must be a very well-seasoned actress to have starred in fifty plays," Claire said.

"My mother got me into acting as a hobby. She's the only reason why I'm even an actress."

"I think we all owe somebody for our success," said Wing.

"Aye," Laura replied.

"That would be boasting if you didn't give anyone their due credit," said Claire.

"And I personally don't think boastfulness is characteristic anyone wants to have," Kent said.

"Or be faced with," Otto chimed in.

"Aye," Laura replied.

They all laughed and Wing further realized he had about 2 possible new friends; the designer and the actress. He wasn't feeling the two odd ones. They were nice, but they were a bit too artistic. He didn't think they had cooties or anything but they were a bit odd.

The jet took to the air hopefully for the last time, then a butter-blond headed girl walked in and sat beside Laura. She smiled at the group.

"Shelby, USA," she said.

"Laura, Scotland."

"Wing, Japan."

"Claire, Japan."

"Kent, Russia."

"Otto, England."

They exchanged info sheets once more.

_Name: Shelby Brooklyn Ackard-Trinity_

_Age: 16_

_Birthday: November 12, 1993_

_Birthplace: New York, USA_

_Parents: Miranda Ackard-Trinity & Ethan Trinity_

_Mode of Enrollment: Selected_

_Sibling/s: Two. Jessica Ackard-Trinity & Austin Ackard-Trinity_

_Skills: Dancing, singing_

_Specialty: Dancing_

_Other Relevant Information  
-Member, New York Dance Crew_

"You're in NYDC! Cool!" Claire exclaimed.

"I heard that if you're in NYDC, you're the best of the best dancers," said Laura.

"I'm not really that good," Shelby said.

"If you're not that good, how'd you get into the NYDC?" asked Wing.

"Pure luck," said Kent.

"Or bribery," Otto said.

"I really don't know," Shelby said.

_Will all representatives alight now please? We have arrived at The International School of The Arts. _

They all took a deep breath. This was it. Otto didn't look nervous at all. He beckoned Kent to come down with him. They got on the escalator before the others in their compartment. Wing asked Claire to come with him, leaving Shelby and Laura to go down together. Wing now had 3 potential friends; the designer, the actress, and the dancer. He wasn't overly artistic.

* * *

**Yay!**

**It's long!**

**R & R!  
**


	9. Daredevil

**More art school related fun!**

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**Eah-yay!**

**Iglatin-pay!**

**Read-eth on-eth. **

**

* * *

**"It's like we're on a whole different island," said Wing to Claire.

"So the rumors are true," Claire replied.

The many representatives flocked towards the wrought-iron gates that had ISA on them. A woman with an exceedingly beautiful face and dark cropped hair stood at the gate-openers post.

"Welcome to The International School of The Arts. I am Raven, Dr. Nero's right-hand. In mere seconds you will be entering the I.S.A. and your new lives as students of I.S.A. Dr. Nero will meet you on the other side of these gates and will collect your requirements. So you have probably been waiting to hear these words: YOU'RE IN," said the woman, Russian accent betraying her origins. She pulled a lever and the gates opened. The representatives eagerly stampeded in, only to be dumbfounded at where to go. They were stopped by a man.

"I am Dr. Nero, the founder of this institution. You will soon have your new lives, but before that, pair up," said Nero.

"Partners?" asked Wing to Claire. She nodded.

"You wanna be partners?" asked Otto to Kent. She too nodded.

"Partners?" asked Shelby to Laura. She nodded like everyone else.

"Good. Now whoever you are partnered with will be your roommate for the whole 6-year program here," said Nero.

The female representatives who were partnered with boys groaned. They didn't know what they were getting into.

"You shall be guided with your roommate by one of the staff about protocol, rules, and your dormitories. And they shall be giving you your special surprise."

The group buzzed with conversation.

"What do you think the surprise is, Otto?" asked Kent.

"I don't know."

Nero cleared his throat.

"And off you go."

Wing and Claire were guided by a pretty French woman by the name of Eponine Beaumont, Shelby and Laura by a handsome American man named David Johnson, and finally Otto and Kent by a muscular German man by the name of Franz Argentblum.

Otto and Kent followed Franz to a place that seemed like a hotel.

"This is your dormitory," said Franz, gesturing to the spacious two bedroom that featured two bathrooms.

"But you can go back here later. We have more important matters to attend to," said Franz, " These are your room keys. The suite number is written there, but I'll tell you anyway; your dormitory is Suite 303." He handed each of them a plastic key card. They had 303 embossed on them and each of their names. They each slipped it into their pockets.

They walked behind him in a long distance to a dark place that smelled a bit of petrol.

"These," said Franz, "are your new Shrouds."

There were two cars, one plated 006 and the other 007. They were both covered with a cloth.

Otto went near the one labeled 007 and threw the cloth back. The car was silver.

"This, Otto, is a Chevrolet Stingray Concept. This," said Franz, throwing Otto a set of keys, "is your Shroud."

Kent smiled as Otto eagerly got into the extremely cool sports car and started to check it out. Kent looked hopefully at Franz, hoping she wouldn't get anything bad.

"We never forgot about you, Innokentiy, that, is the only reason why we got you this," said Franz, unveiling the second car. It was midnight black. It was sculpted and gorgeous. Amazing.

"This, my dear Innokentiy, is a Ferrari Enzo, a street-legal rendition of an F1 racer, and to your advantage," said Franz, he threw her a set of keys strung on a Ferrari keychain, which she caught, "your one and only Shroud."

She looked at her Shroud. She could just imagine herself driving around in the Ferrari, unabashed by everyone else's suckish car. A small question plagued her.

"Why is it called a Shroud if Otto's car is silver?"

"The Shrouds are themed by the night. Otto had gotten the moon style one and you got the midnight version. But I can tell you one thing; you two are the only ones who got the Chevy and the Ferrari, so consider yourselves lucky."

Kent opened the door, and it went up, not the usual out. She smiled. A sports car that she owned.

"Well? Have a go, _ja_? It's a long walk, and your dormitory has a parking lot. Go on, you know you want to."

"Wait a sec," said Kent, removing her coat, throwing it in her Shroud, to reveal a close-fitting black shirt, skinny jeans and black Chuck Taylors.

She got in her car, put the key in the ignition, and revved up the engine.

"You go straight, take a left, and go straight from there until you reach a building labeled 'Unterkunft' and park there in the lot. Put the alarm on, _ja?_"

"_Ja,_" echoed Otto and Kent.

"I thought it was cold in Russia?" Otto shouted over the noise of the engines.

"It is, and it's colder where you're going to be!"

"And where is that?"

"In my dust!"

"Race ya!"

"Bet you twenty quid if I get there first!"

"I'll take that bet, Innokentiy!"

"Right, _ein, zwei, drei, gehen!_" screamed Franz over the engine noise. Otto and Kent took that as their go signal and left Franz in the dust. Otto pushed the Chevy to its limits and tried beating the Russian and keeping his twenty quid. But the Ferrari was the equivalent of an F1 racer, and the girl was a very good driver, thus beating the boy. Kent parked the car in the Unterkunft parking lot, and leaned against it. She kept her face smug and victorious, which she actually was when a silver Chevy rolled into the parking lot, stopped beside the Ferrari, and out came the boy with peculiar white hair. His face was frowning and his left hand was reaching into his back pocket. Kent latched her keys to her belt loop and held her hand out for her winnings. She put the alarm on. He did the same for his Shroud. He regretfully stuffed the twenty quid into her hand.

"Спасибо," she said smugly in Russian.

"You win for now, Innokentiy, but I'm going to win something soon enough," he retorted.

They walked into the lobby of their new dormitory building. It looked more like a hotel than a dorm lobby. The dormouse looked at them. Otto was in jeans and a dark blue shirt and Kent was in what she was wearing.

"Mr. Malpense, Ms. Thomas, you'll be pleased to know that your luggage has been brought up to your suite."

"Yes. Thank you," Otto replied coolly.

"What floor is Suite 303 on again," Kent's eyes looked for the name tag on the dormouse, "Lucas?"

"Penthouse, Ms. Thomas."

"Thank you."

Otto was about to climb the stairs when Kent pulled him into the posh-looking elevator.

"We're on the penthouse, Michelangelo," she teased.

"How was I to know that we were on the penthouse? I don't even know how many floors does the Unterkunft have," he replied.

"Thirty."

"Really?"

"I read the guide that was stuck underneath the dormouse's counter."

"So we're on the thirtieth floor in the third suite?"

"There's pretty much only three there anyways."

"Oh."

The doors slid open in front of suite 301. They got out and walked a bit to Suite 303. Otto slid his keycard into the reader and the door opened. They never really got to admire its beauty. The two beds were in two different rooms, there was basically a lounge for both of them to stay in with a huge ceiling-to-floor window, a small kitchen, two bathrooms (one in each bedroom), a small dinner table in the small kitchen, and what amazed them both was the killer view. You could see the island, its small lights. The island was like a small country on its own: you had every component of a city; the nightclubs, the theaters, the malls, the libraries, etc.; an area of untouched nature; and not to mention all the people. It was like a whole country that only 16 and 17 year- olds resided in.

It was sunset, and the bright lights of the island appeared. It was a sight to behold. Otto went to his room while Kent admired the view. He put his clothes in his closet, and perhaps more important, his easel, his canvas, his pencils, paints, and brushes beside the window. He stopped to admire his room. The walls were painted a tasteful black, the furniture white, a computer upon a desk with school supplies already on it, a key tray also upon the desk. A key tray. Which reminded him of his Shroud, whose keys were in his pocket. He hastily put it in the key tray along with the room key. He took his phone out from his pocket, a Nokia N97 which he spent a lot of his hard-earned money on. He forgot to get his new friend's number. He dressed into a t-shirt and some bermuda shorts, the whole suite being centralized anyway. He had a bathroom with everything he packed considered toiletries. He went out of his room.

Kent was seated in one of the lounge chairs, a white chaise. In fact, the whole suite was painted black. And it had a white and black chandelier that sort of gave it a Victorian feel. She was toying with her own phone, a Motorola Hiptop. She too dressed down, now only wearing a pair of leggings with a loose top. She was pale. Otto cleared his throat.

"Oh! Hi Otto."

"Hey...I have something to ask you."

"Me too."

"Can I have your number?" they asked in unison.

"Yeah, sure," they replied in unison once more.

They laughed and exchanged numbers.

They only noticed now that there was a TV in the lounge, a sort of entertainment center if you will, where you could dock a music phone for music to play throughout the suite, a TV of course, and a DVD player along with some DVDs.

They turned the TV on and switched it to island news, as the channel guide said.

_"And the new batch of students have arrived and hopefully found their special surprises, Shroud cars they are expected to drive to class tomorrow. Let's hope they're all settled in."_

"Oh yeah, do you think we can order out or something Kent? I can't cook," said Otto.

"Well there's a phone here, you could call one of 'em food services if you want, but I can spare myself the expenditure of ordering. I can whip something up, there's some ingredients in the cupboards."

"Is it edible?"

"Yes, and it's good."

"Is it Russian?"

"No, and do you want to eat in or not?"

"I'll try your cooking even if we've only just met earlier."

"Nice. You trust me with your dinner."

"What do you expect from me, the boy with white hair?"

She smiled and shook her head. She went to the kitchen and began to work on something, and delicious aromas wafted from the kitchen. He heard chopping, dicing, slicing, and various other typical sounds you hear when someone's cooking.

Kent turned off the stove, set two places, found two glasses in the glassware cupboard and set her masterpiece on the table: Spinach carbonara.

"Otto, it's time to eat."

Otto walked to the small dinner table only probably fit for four people. He sat down opposite Kent.

"And what could this possibly be?"

"Spinach carbonara."

Otto served himself some and took a bite. He had to admit, it was delicious. Kent stared at Otto's reaction, hopeful that he liked it.

He smiled as he swallowed a mouthful of pasta. She smiled and ate her own dinner.

"So, um, you probably want something to wash that all down?"

"Obviously, Kent."

"Knew it."

She brought out two cans of soda and set each beside one glass.

Kent looked at what she did, then put her glass back in the cupboard.

"To hell with restaurant manners. It's just the two of us anyways."

"I couldn't agree more," said Otto, handing her his glass. She stowed these away.

She sat down and opened her Coke. He did the same. And they drank the fizzy drinks.

They watched TV for a while.

"Hey, I think we'd better sleep now."

"Really, this from the daredevil Ferrari driver?"

"Yes. Now do you want to get to your precious art class or not?"

Otto shot up from his comfortable position on the other chaise and hugged his friend.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, Otto, tomorrow."

"G'night."

"Night."

Otto closed the door. He crashed on his bed and fell asleep.

He needed it.

* * *

**It's long!**

**Yay!**

**R&R!  
**


	10. Presumed Innokentiy

**Ooh, Ferraris and Chevys. **

**Let's see what happens on the first day. **

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

* * *

_I came here to make you dance tonight  
I don't care if I'm a guilty pleasure for you  
Shut up 'cause we won't stop  
And we're getting down till the sun's coming up_

_I came here to make you dance tonight  
I don't care about my guilty pleasure for you  
Shut up 'cause we won't stop  
And we're getting down till the sun's coming up_

Otto fell out of his bed. The alarm on his phone was playing. He regretfully turned it off. He turned to shower. After he'd showered, he was about to go to the closet and pick out his clothes for class, but a dry clean bag was hung in front of the closet door. It was his uniform, he guessed. It consisted of dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and red Chuck Taylors. There was a note attached to it.

_Artist's uniform. _

He wondered how this managed to be an artist's uniform, but he wore it anyway. Sunlight shone brightly into his room. He took a hat from his suitcase and put it on. He opened his phone, and Kent had sent him a text.

_Bring these for today: pen and notebook; and for painting students; pencil, eraser, paintbrushes, paint, and sketchpad. P.S. School starts at eight. _

Otto got his backpack and put everything that was in the text. He retrieved his keys from the tray, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and slipped his key card in his pocket.

He went out of his room and looked around for Kent.

"Kent?"

"Yeah," she shouted from her room.

"Should I go first?"

"Yeah, and there's coffee in to go cups on the table."

"Thanks."

Otto took one and sipped. He then exited from Suite 303 and took the elevator down to the parking lot. On the twentieth floor, an Asian girl walked in. She seemed uncomfortable with him being there. On the ground floor, he went out first and put the alarm of his car off once he got to it. The Asian seemed to stare at him as he put the key in the ignition and drove off. There were directions plugged into his phone, so he just followed them to the instruction building, the Undervisning.

He parked and got out of the Shroud, backpack over shoulder. He walked past a Shelby and Laura, but they didn't seem to know who he was, following him with their eyes and blushing once he looked. He sat down on the steps of the Undervisning, waiting for Kent. He didn't take off his hat, seeing at how hot it was. A black convertible Mustang stopped in front of him, and the driver, a black-haired girl in huge sunglasses got out and walked slowly up the steps.

"Aren't you going to park that?" he asked.

"I have a valet," she replied confidently, tossing her black mane behind her. She wore a tight red dress with some stilettos and she toted a minuscule purse.

He shook his head and ignored her. That was Claire Haruno, he guessed. Pompous princess who can't lift a finger.

Laura and Shelby stayed in a corner, fanning themselves with their hands. Not because of the weather, he guessed.

Claire went over to them, also fanning herself. Was this some sort of sorority?

A silver Bentley pulled up, and its driver was a tall Asian in a white polo shirt over a red vest, aviators, and dark blue jeans. He had a ponytail at his nape. Wing Fanchu, the singer who had fan girls. Wing walked over to Claire and began to talk to them. They weren't that far, so he listened to them inconspicuously.

"Wing, who's the guy in the hat?" asked Claire.

"I don't know," he replied calmly.

"Whoever he is, I'd like to get a piece of that," said Shelby.

"Aye. If by any chance you know him, Wing, tell us," said Laura.

"Why are all of you fanning yourselves in the first place?" asked Wing.

"Is it just him or is it really hot in here?" asked Shelby.

Otto smiled to himself. Yesterday they were giving off an aura that they thought he was weird. Today, they were asking Wing who he was, simply because he was attractive.

"I think it's him," Claire said, blushing madly.

"Riiiiight," said Wing sarcastically.

"I mean, no offense to you, Wing, but he drives a frickin' Chevy Stingray! How can you not like him," said Shelby.

"Because I'm straight," Wing replied.

The three girls seemed to chorus in a 'whatever'. Otto heard the roar of an engine, then he looked at who pulled up this time. The car was a Ferrari. He wondered what Kent got as her uniform. She put the alarm on as she parked beside the Bentley. She went out of her Shroud in (Otto had to remind himself that they were friends) a close fitting black dress, black wayfarers, red trainers, and she carried a white patent leather shoulder bag with a sort of turquoise stripe.

He listened to Wing's group's reaction.

"Ohmigod. Who is that piece of trash that out-hotted me?" Claire asked angrily.

"I don't know, but I think the rest of the boys know," said Laura softly.

"What do you think, Wing?" Shelby asked.

"What? Who? Where? Um, yeah," Wing replied, rubbing his nape.

"Wing likes her," Laura teased.

"Mmhm, Claire, I suggest you blind him," Shelby laughed.

Claire put one hand on her hip.

"Who's hotter Wing? Me or that tramp?"

"You. Yeah. You. Definitely you."

Claire then tossed a lock of hair behind her.

"What do you think we should do about this?"

"I know Claire," said Shelby, an evil grin across her face.

"What?"

"Make a scene," she replied, nodding towards Wing.

"We're friends and we've only met yesterday."

"I know what you're feeling, Claire," said Shelby in a low voice near Claire's ear, "Wing is a hot piece of shit. And lucky you, you're roommates with him. You've probably seen his 6-pack."

"How do you even know that?"

"It's called a thin shirt."

"Right. But he won't like it, I'm telling you."

"Didn't you see how he made a beeline for you once he got out of his Shroud?"

"It's just that. We're friends."

"Go on, you know you want to," Shelby said coyly. Laura nodded and pushed Claire to Wing.

"Hey," said Wing.

"Uh, hi."

Otto wondered what scene she was going to make.

"Hey Otto," said a voice near his ear. He looked to his side, and it was Kent.

"Nice little strut you did there."

"Hey, you made a quite a ruckus when you walked in here."

"Guess so. How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to know that Claire, Shelby, and Laura think you're a piece of hot trash and that Claire called me a tramp."

"A while."

"So what d'you think the scene is?"

"Just watch."

They surreptitiously looked and listened.

"So, uh, ever been in love?" asked Claire nervously.

"Not in a while."

"Ever been kissed?"

"I intentionally forgot about it. Why?"

Then Claire kissed Wing, then Kent and Otto looked away.

A bell rang, which probably meant class was to start. Other students looked upon Wing and Claire, shocked, astounded, and in the girls' case, jealous. They broke apart, both of them red in the face, obscured halfway by the sunglasses. They piled in anyway.

The Undervisning was a modern building, but at the end of the hallway was a stage. Nero stood on it. He told the students to come closer.

"This is the general exhibition stage. This is where we find out if you need extra specialty skill classes. For the representatives who wish to be in extra singing classes, you should be able to sing at least two lines from a song known worldwide. For the extra acting classes, be prepared to do a monologue from an internationally acclaimed play or movie. For the extra fashion classes, you must have one whole outfit designed by you and you alone. For dancing, have a routine to a song known worldwide. For writing, read out a scene from today or yesterday. And last but not the least, for extra painting classes, paint something and explain its composition. I will call each and every one of you. The names are not alphabetical, simply drawn from a fish bowl. A copy of your regular class list will be given to you after your exhibition. You will be given ten minutes to prepare. Begin."

The representatives dashed around madly, fumbling with their materials. Kent had already begun writing her scene. She sat down on a nearby bench, stooped over her notebook. Otto tried to find something to paint; anything would do. But everyone was in motion, so he wouldn't get a clear painting. He decided to paint Kent instead, seeing as she was just sitting there writing. After ten minutes, Nero called their attention once more. Otto finished, proud of his work. He took of his hat to reveal his spiky white hair. Claire gasped in the distance, eagerly reporting who he was. Kent retracted her pen, took off her sunglasses, and shook her hair down her back. She stood up.

"So who'd you paint?" she asked eagerly.

"You'll find out soon enough."

Nero cleared his throat and fished around the clear glass dome and found a piece of paper.

"Wing Masaru Fanchu."

About every girl either gasped or blushed. Kent rolled her eyes. Wing went up the stage.

"What song?"

"Black Hearts by Jet."

Many girls echoed one sentence, which was,

"I love that song!"

Nero cleared his throat and they all quieted down.

"Proceed, Mr. Fanchu."

"_Your heart's on fire, but your cold to the touch, I know you want it but you love yourself too much, your heart's on fire but your head is a rut, you best believe it, I ain't ever giving up, so come on, come on, come on, hey yeah!_"

Every girl screamed, not counting Kent. He was good and all, but she didn't like him very much.

"You now have a two-hour singing class at 2 pm, Mr. Fanchu," said Nero, handing Wing a sheet of paper. Wing nodded and went down from the stage.

Nero put his hand in the fish bowl once more. He took one piece of paper out.

"Innokentiy Madeleine Thomas."

Otto gave her a reassuring pat on the back. She smiled weakly and made her way to the stage.

"Please tell us the title of your composition, Ms. Thomas."

"Seventeen Stilettos."

"Continue."

"_Tara parked her Mustang in front of the school building. She confidently walked up the steps in her sky-high stilettos, not caring who was being pained by being her valet. Adam asked her, 'Aren't you going to park that?' she answered proudly, 'I have a valet.' Adam laughed it off and listened to Tara talk animatedly with her posse which consisted of Emily, Xenia, and Isaac. Emily suddenly got an idea; why not dare Tara to kiss Isaac? They seemed in love anyways. Adam and Winona heard this and laughed. What could happen anyways? Then it happened. Tara did the dare, and thus Winona had a story to tell._"

"Might I ask why it is called Seventeen Stilettos?"

"Because Tara is seventeen."

Otto suddenly realized the scene she was illustrating: this morning, when Claire and Wing made a scene. Claire turned scarlet, Wing glared at Otto, and Otto knew that Kent would be receiving some glares from Wing and Claire.

"Congratulations, you now have a two-hour literary class at 10 am, Ms. Thomas," said Nero, also handing Kent a sheet of paper. She thanked Nero and walked down, receiving applause from everyone except Wing and Claire.

Nero put his hand back in the fish bowl.

"Clarissa Alison Haruno."

Claire proudly walked up the stage.

"Please showcase your creation."

Claire showed him a wedding dress with a brocade of diamonds and a fitted bodice. Nero nodded. He gave her a sheet of paper.

"Your extra fashion classes are at 1 pm."

She nodded and strutted back to her place with Wing and her posse.

Nero drew another name from the bowl.

"Laura Slaine Brand."

Laura paled and slowly went up the steps.

"Your movie or play, Ms. Brand?"

"Les Miserables. It's sort of a song/monologue, sir."

"Very well."

"_In my life, there are so many questions and answers that somehow seem wrong, in my life there are times when I catch in the silence, the sigh of a faraway song, and it sings of a world that I long to see, out of reach, just a whisper away, waiting for me._"

"Extra acting classes at 3 pm, Ms. Brand," said Nero, handing her the schedule.

Laura nodded and went back to her little group.

He drew another name.

"Shelby Brooklyn Trinity."

Shelby ran up the stage.

"Your song, Ms. Trinity?"

"Evacuate The Dancefloor by Cascada."

The music came on and Shelby began to show her great skill. Once she'd finished, Nero handed her the schedule.

"Your two-hour extra dance classes are at 9 am."

Shelby nodded, then went back to her group.

"And those who have already done their exhibitions may leave for regular class or wait for their friends."

Wing's group did not leave. Nero drew another name.

"Otto Buonarroti-Malpense."

Otto took his sketchpad with him and put it on the easel that had been set up on the stage.

Oohs and aahs erupted from all around the room, even from Wing's group. Kent gasped. Otto portrayed her so beautifully even if she was just stooped over her notebook.

"The title of your piece?

"I call it 'Presumed Innokentiy'."

"You portrayed her quite well, Mr. Malpense. Explain why you omitted the other people from this painting."

"I omitted them since they were all in motion, the details of the features would be unclear."

"Good. You have two-hour extra classes at 9 am. Might I ask permission for the ISA to keep this painting?"

"Yes sir."

Otto accepted his schedule and went with Kent to Painting. He needed a bit of art right now.

* * *

**It's long!**

**Yay! **

**Like I said, the only things I own are Kent and Claire. **

**The Les Mis stuff and the lyrics and the songs are not mine. **

**R&R!  
**


	11. Mentors

**So far, so good eh?**

**Art/Painting classes here we come!**

**I-eth own-eth nothing-eth but-eth Kent-eth and-eth Claire-eth.**

**Read-eth on-eth.**

* * *

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the woman, Italian accent prominent, "Pure artistry!" The woman was the Contessa, the painting class teacher.

Otto smiled, embarrassed by the Contessa's reaction.

"The portrayal of her features is extraordinary. Her radiance was not taken away; rather you kept up with it."

"Thank you, Contessa."

"We must tell Nero about this."

Otto didn't say anything. Nero was an opposing force to the bohemians, he thought. It was a rumor that proved true. He believed the only reason he put up this school was to rid the world of its bohemians once and for all, crushing their dreams to leave only six or so bohemians free and inspired.

Kent stayed put for his painting, which took a whole hour. He still had to stay in this classroom/art gallery for his advanced painting classes. So he would maybe only catch the other forty five minutes of, ugh, singing. He hated that class, especially since he didn't have much talent in that category. He only said so in his info sheet so that it seemed like he wasn't just an emo-canvas-toting-tragic-artist person.

"I'm done, Kent, you can breathe now," he said to his subject. She sighed, relaxed.

"Dismissed, except for painting students."

Everyone exited the room to go to the auditorium which doubled as singing and acting classroom.

Otto stayed behind.

"YOU'RE NOT GETTING IT!" exclaimed Pike, who had music down to a science. He tapped the tuning fork madly on the edge of the stage.

Kent sighed. Her head was aching from all this screaming. All she wanted to do was curl up in the corner with a good book and read.

Otto ran to the auditorium, setting his backpack on a nearby seat.

He tapped Kent's shoulder.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"So what I miss?"

"Pike's rant about music being like science."

Otto's eyebrow cocked up. Kent shrugged.

"So far so good?"

"I dunno."

They breezed through class. Next was acting, so they didn't leave.

Acting was taught by Ms. Richelieu, a dramatic woman herself. The Cardinals (as Wing's group was now called) had supported their own, Laura. Otto and Kent shrugged it off.

Next came Dancing, taught by Ms. Leon, and as usual, a Cardinal member excelled. Shelby. Otto ignored it.

Then Otto had to go to Physical Education while girls went to Fashion. Turns out, Otto didn't do so badly. But Wing was all the more better. He was fine as long as he didn't fail and came back to London with a million euros.

After Phys. Ed., they all gathered in Nero's classroom for Literary Arts. Kent was especially excited about this, since she didn't have to worry.

"This class is to make you all into more proficient, understandable, and able writers. And not to mention, this will help you once you have become famous, where speeches are a given," said Nero.

They all nodded.

"This Wednesday, you all shall be introduced into the world. Your acts outside of your dorms will be watched by millions of people from around the world, to get you all used to the limelight. You will have by tomorrow, a stylist, a prep team, and a mentor from your respective countries. As for your mentors, they will teach you to get sponsors, people well-off who support you and add to your prize. At this very moment, all of you stand at zero. To get you sponsors, you may have to get some allies. Now back to the writing," said Nero.

They all wondered who would be their mentors.

The Alphas finished Literary Arts and the girls went to Phys. Ed., which was taught by Colonel Francisco, a man who seemed to hate every person in the world.

They finished, and while everyone was a buzz with conversation concerning the mentors, Otto and Kent ate lunch.

"So who do you think your mentor will be?" asked Kent.

"Someone I don't know, obviously."

"Well, who knows? Maybe it's gonna be Mr. Arkwright."

"Nah, he's too old for that."

Kent laughed. Nero's voice was heard throughout the island.

_"Interviews will be held, actions will be watched, starting Wednesday."_

As everyone retired to their rooms, the concern for mentors died down.

They were in for a surprise.

* * *

**That's short, yeah, but I'm trying the best I can to update faster!**

**So wait. **

**R & R!**


	12. Manuscripts and Manicures

**More fun!**

**I own nothing but my OCs, clear? Good.**

**Most of this is in Kent's point of view, so please understand.**

* * *

I was woken up by a very loud sound of paper on paper. My eyes snapped open, trying to figure who was here what they were doing. A brunette woman was carelessly reading my manuscripts, a redhead looking through my dressing table, and a black-haired woman tsk-tsking my shampoo.

MY MANUSCRIPTS!

I shot up.

"Who are you and what are you doing destroying my manuscripts?!"

The brunette smiled and extended her arm.

"I'm Arisha, this is Faina," she said gesturing to the redhead, "and this is Tatiana," she continued, this time pointing to the black-haired woman, "We're your prep team, Innokentiy."

I just nodded and let them fiddle with my hair, nails, and makeup. I never wore makeup; it was a nuisance to your writing. Tatiana went on and on about the condition of my hair, which was always in a headband, and about how it looked better down, and that it was great it was straight. I just kept nodding and agreeing with her, since it was too early to be angry. Maybe Otto was getting prepped too. Once Tatiana finished her rant, Faina scolded me for not using lotion while I was writing that I now had the case of "Writer's Hand," which left my nails and hands in terrible condition, and that I should start using lotion. I again agreed, since I was too badly wakened up to argue. After Faina's scolding, Arisha told me various things I should be doing to keep me pretty. I nodded and nodded, pretending to understand. They told me to sit down at the dressing table; they'd just prepare me until my stylist arrives. They chatter merrily about home, and how fun it would be if I won. I could feel Tatiana carefully getting my hair into a bohemian braid that doesn't make my hair wavy, and the cool mist of the shine spray. Faina carefully files my nails into perfect shape, applies lotion to my hands, and adding cuticle oil to them. Arisha puts a lightweight sort of mousse unto my face, swipes one coat of clear gloss on my lips, and deems me ready. I stare into the mirror, my face changed a little thanks to Arisha, and my hair in a nice shiny braid that refuses to curl my hair, and my nails as if manicured by the gods.

"There, you look pretty enough," says Tatiana, smoothing a few strands away from my face. "She was already pretty before, Tatiana," replies Faina. "We're just here to keep up with it," says Arisha, tilting my chin up. My prep team seems nice enough, it's just that I don't like being bossed around. They leave, and tell me my stylist is here. I look to my door, and sure enough, a fashionable-looking woman enters my room and looks at the uniform. She tsk-tsks it, and turns to me with a kind smile.

"I'm Kira, your stylist."

"Uh, hi," I reply nervously. When the Russians were dressed before, they'd be in coats and hats and all sorts of drab, boring things. I have enough coats, thank you very much.

"Well you need to catch a sponsor's attention, that much is true, but you have to showcase Mother Russia as well...hmmm," said Kira, deep in thought. I prayed for not coats and hats.

"What do we do when winter becomes harsh, Innokentiy?" asked Kira. I shrugged.

"We turn the heat up."

Next thing I know I'm in a white dress with a wildly red stripe along the very high-hem, turquoise wayfarers, and black heels I can't walk in. Kira lets me walk around in them, telling me to chill. How can she expect me to chill when I look like I walked out of The Splinter School?

She puts my hair up front, so that they'll see how pretty my hair looks naturally.

"Do I have to go to class like this?"

"No, Innokentiy, that's for tomorrow's introductions."

"Great."

Kira smiles.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine."

"If you say so, Kira."

She nods, gives me her phone number, and leaves. I take comfort in the feeling of denim and cotton against my skin instead of that dreadful satin thing.

* * *

**Ok, that was short.**

**R&R!  
**


	13. Tuxedos and Tape Measures

**Okay, we've seen Kent's outfit. **

**But what about OTTO'S outfit?**

**What could it possibly look like?**

**Here we find out. **

**In Otto's POV. **

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

* * *

Clunk. Clunk. Rip. Rip. Swish. Swish. I awoke to these annoying sounds perturbing my bedroom. I saw a brunette woman, about 23, hitting one easel against the wall in an effort to see whatever was there. The woman's companions; a redhead and a blond; the redhead tearing an exquisitely color-covered piece of canvas, and the blond mixing colors in my paint box. Then I realized what the redhead was tearing.

"WHAT IN BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING TO MY PAINTING?!" I screamed at the redhead. The painting was of Kent, lying on the chaise, legs propped up on one arm of it, radiant face looking at me. More importantly, I wrote something on the back of it.

"Oh, Master Otto, you've awakened," said the redhead calmly.

"Hell yeah I've awakened, and give me that," I snapped, snatching the canvas from her grasp. The redhead smiled. I nearly slapped the woman.

"I'm Calleigh, this is Giselle," said the redhead, gesturing to the brunette, "and this is Kirsten," she said finally, pointing to the blond, "We were assigned as your preparation team, Master Otto."

I didn't like the way she called me 'Master'. It screamed riches, which I do not have at this precise moment.

"What are you supposed to do?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Exactly what we're called, sir; we prepare you. We style your hair, and cover any imperfections you may have," replied Calleigh coolly. I almost said, "What imperfections?"

"Okay. But you really can't do anything with my hair. It stays that way," I commanded. They dare undo any natural styling of my hair and they shall be the first to receive my oil paints in the face.

"We know, sir. We do nothing to your hair. But we must attend to your face," said Calleigh rather harriedly. "And your hands, sir," interjected Kirsten. "Yes sir, we must attend to your face and hands," added Giselle.

I nodded tersely and let them sit me down in a chair. From what I saw before Calleigh forcefully closed my eyes was Giselle putting something on my hands; for paint not to stick, she said; Kirsten assisting Giselle, and Calleigh tutting Kirsten for complaining about noting to do. I smirked. They talked as they prepared me, noting things in me and fawning over them. All I could do was thank them.

"You have exquisite features, Master Otto."

"Thank you, Calleigh."

"Your hair is in good shape."

"Thank you, Kirsten."

"And your hands have accustomed themselves to the paints, sir; they do not stay on your hands after washing."

"Thank you, Giselle."

After a few minutes, they deemed me worthy of my stylist.

"She's coming, sir, just wait." I nodded and examined myself in the reflective surface of my decommissioned mobile phone. I didn't look bad.

A young woman burst through my door. She had flaming red hair that came in waves, and she motioned for the prep team to come with her.

"Hello, Otto, you may not know me, but I certainly know you. I'm Desiree, your stylist for the term of your exile and or schooling. I do your uniforms for each day, and I work tirelessly in doing so. Now, show me that wretched uniform they sent you," said the woman quickly. I blinked to take it all in. I pointed to the uniform hanging on the closet door.

"My God! What have they done! Idiots!" Desiree cried. I remained silent.

"Well, you've already got natural good looks; a great car; a great suite; and a great friend. Now we just have to make you a great outfit. Kirsten! Measurements!" demanded Desiree, snapping to Kirsten.

Kirsten hurried over and fished out a roll of measuring tape from her handbag. She unrolled it, looped it around me for awhile in different areas, then wrote everything down in a notepad fished from her bag. She ripped the note sheet off and handed it to Desiree swiftly.

"Hmm...How much do you weigh, boy?"

"Nine stone," I replied quickly.

"Perfect. Just what I had in mind."

"What do you have in mind, Miss Warden?" asked Calleigh, who seemed the leader of the prep team. She whispered for awhile in the woman's ear, then my mind drifted off. Could Kent be experiencing the same torture?

"Amazing, Miss Warden! I'll get my people right on it!" replied Calleigh excitedly. "Assure that it will, DuQaine," said Desiree coldly.

"Yes ma'am, it will happen by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I want it today."

"Yes madame, it is being worked on as we speak." I only then noticed that Giselle and Kirsten had disappeared.

"Is it done now?" asked Calleigh as her two underlings walked in carrying a dryclean bag,

"Yes, Miss DuQaine," replied Giselle breathlessly, handing Calleigh the bag. Calleigh nodded and presented it to Desiree. She nodded and unzipped it. It was a tuxedo, complete with a black bow tie, UK flag cuff links, and shiny black shoes.

"You fit this after classes. I have no time to oversee the fitting.I have a meeting with Mr. Warden in two minutes, so just call me," said Desiree, handing me her business card. Her real name was Desiree G. Warden. I took the Warden away in my mind, and her initials could have been D and G.

The prep team left along with Desiree, and I read the writing on the back of the canvas Calleigh was ripping.

_Io solo non può come te. Io non sono autorizzato a farlo. Tu sei il mio migliore amico. L'unico che Io abbia mai avuto. Non riesco a rompere quei confini. Mi odio per questo. Ma mi piace ancora la stessa. Non mi importa se come me back. So solo che mi piaci. _

I rolled it up and slipped it into my backpack. I dressed and picked up the coffee Kent made and left in to go cups. It was brewed, and I wondered how she knew that I liked my coffee black. I took the elevator down and went to my Shroud. The Chevy Stingray. No hat today, but I slipped on those wayfarers I brought with me.

I liked the sound of hot rubber on asphalt. Thank God there wasn't any speed limits on this island.

* * *

**That was short, I know, but at least it's Otto's outfit, right? **

**Right. **

**I don't want to translate that for you, there's tons of online translators out there, just find one and use it. **

**But I guarantee it's unexpected. **

**R&R!  
**


	14. Moons and Marble

**So we've all seen the morning of the second day, right? **

**You better all have. Or else. :D**

**Since the actual second day is boring, let's jump to **_**after**_** classes, shall we?**

**Good. **

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**In Kent's POV.**

**Gustare!**

* * *

I parked my Shroud on the exact same parking spot I had yesterday. I turned off the engine, took my keys out the ignition, and sat there for a few seconds. The climate on this island was nothing compared to home. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought about home in what, forty-eight hours? I didn't seem to miss it when I got here.

I opened (rather, flipped up) my door. I took my small messenger bag with me as I went out of my car; small because it only was designed to contain a pen, notebook, and cell phone. I stepped out, pushed down the door, and got my key card from my back pocket.

I nodded to Lucas, the dormouse, and pressed the up button on the elevator. At the second the doors were about to swish closed, a pretty girl with wavy midnight black hair and sapphire blue eyes. She seemed to give off an air of bitchiness. I knew who she was once I'd smelled her Juicy Couture eau de toilette perfume. Claire Haruno, the girl with fearless flirting and fabulous outfits. Tsk. Always the perfect girl. The jewel of the Land of The Rising Sun. More like the princess of all the geisha who sold their bodies to wealthy businessmen. I could feel the air chill between us. She didn't like me, and that was fine; you don't like me, I don't like you. The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor, and as she was exiting, a familiar face filled my view. The American, Shelby Trinity.

"Hey, C! I was looking for you!" said Shelby excitedly, not stepping in the elevator. "Me too, Shel! I have, like, so much to tell you!" replied Claire, linking her arm on Shelby's. It was as if I was just air. "Walk with me, talk with me, C," replied Shelby, taking her friend out of the elevator. Claire followed her friend as she flipped her black mane. I was about to close the elevator doors, then a friend hopped in. "Hey Otto," I said to him, watching the elevator numbers get higher and higher. "Hey," he replied. "So what were you doing on the twentieth floor?" I asked. "Turns out every floor has something special about it. This one's an atelier. I'm looking at each floor," he replied coolly. "That's cool," I replied, "What's on our floor?"

"An art gallery."

The elevator emitted a soft 'ding' to signal our arrival at the penthouse. He dragged me by the arm out and around the whole floor until we were stopped by elaborately carved oak double doors. The shiny gold handles gleamed majestically, as if it knew we were supposed to be here. Otto pushed them open, and revealed a rustic, almost Victorian ruin, but its dim lights made it beautiful. He took my by the hand and dragged me to the painting situated on a pedestal beneath a spotlight. Written on a cream-colored card, in delicate calligraphy, was _Le Diamant Dans La Lune._ I understood. The Diamond In The Moon. It was of a man and a woman; the woman's hair was russet-red, and the man's jet-black; the man was raising her chin up to his eyes, and the moon shone behind them; illuminating the love and beauty in the overall piece."It's beautiful," I said quietly. "It is, isn't it?" replied Otto. "I said it was in the first place," I snapped. "I know that," he retorted. I shook my head. He chuckled. I laughed along. Here we were chuckling about a piece of cloth enrobed in oil paint.

"C'mon, let's meet our mentors," he said finally, dragging me back out. "You know who yours is?" I asked curiously. "No, and that's why we're going back to 303," he replied. I sighed. We arrived in front of our own double doors, and Otto slipped his key card in the reader. They opened. There were two people in front of us; a tall, peculiar young man, probably in his late twenties, with sleek brown hair and green eyes; and a redheaded woman, just like the female in _Le Diamant Dans La Lune_. The man stepped forward.

"Well, this is awkward. I'm going to have to talk to you, Otto, in your room, if you don't mind," he said to Otto. "Of course I don't mind," Otto replied in a relaxed voice. The two skittered off to Otto's room. The redhead smiled.

"You don't know me, but I certainly know you. I'm Nadya Zolnerowich. I was sent by your mama to be your mentor. My, you've grown since I've last seen you," said the redhead. Her face was sort of familiar; like I had seen her somewhere else. "_Privyet_," I stammered. Nadya smiled. "_Ti takaya krasivaya,_ Innokentiy, it has been so long...Now back to business," said Nadya, tone turning businesslike. I nodded. "You are beautiful, little sparrow. And you are smart. And you are cunning. We will work to these angles. You are a writer, yes?" she asked, eyes inquisitive. "_Da,_" I replied softly. "_Khoroshiy._ Those will work to our plans," she replied. A question buzzed in my mind. "What am I supposed to do tomorrow? When I get interviewed?" I asked dubiously. "Smile, answer the questions obsequiously, and seem demure, shy, yet tenacious at the same time. Clear?" she ordered. "Yes," I nodded. She smiled. "Now, good luck tomorrow, okay? Just relax and be yourself."

She exited, and now I longed for a sweet. I fumbled around the cupboards for some sort of mint. I found a tin case of it, and I popped a few in my mouth. I tried to relax. Now, to answer the lingering questions in my head. First, whose plans was Nadya speaking about when she said 'we'? Second, why did I have to seem all those things in my interview? And third, how the hell am I supposed to act shy and courageous at the same time? I popped another 5 in my mouth.

Otto appeared out of nowhere as the man made his way out. He griped the tin of mints from my hands and popped a lot in his mouth. He sighed. "Strategies freaking you out?" I asked. "Yeah," he breathed out. I could sense the scent of his breath in the air; it smelled like the mints I popped in my mouth.

"Wanna go out for dinner? As friends, I mean?" he asked when we'd both calmed down. "Yeah," I replied. He nodded. I searched in my room for my remaining money; right, I brought everything I had; 3200 quid. I fished out 100 and went back out my room in an all-black ensemble. I stuffed the money in my back pocket. I got my key card and my phone. I slipped those in my front pockets.

"Ready?" asked Otto, in an all-black ensemble himself. I nodded. We took the elevator down and decided to walk down the strip. It was like walking down Fifth Avenue in New York. I knew, I'd been there. The lights were bright, the buildings were high, stores selling expensive wares filled the view, and mostly young people surrounded us. We chose a quaint French cafe and ate. We didn't speak the whole evening. We quietly made our way home, and we shut each other out. I understood what he felt; tomorrow, the whole world would see anything and everything we did on this island until we graduate, and there wouldn't be a chance of privacy. I peeled off my clothes, got in my nightclothes and fell asleep. I didn't want to think anymore. I needed to rest.

* * *

**TO WEDNESDAY!**

**R&R!  
**


	15. Interviews and Infatuations

**Here we are, in THE most important part in the whole story. **

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**In Kent's POV again.  
**

**I will no longer restrain you from your reading.**

**

* * *

**I awoke at precisely seven in the morning. I showered, then dressed up in the heinous outfit Kira made me wear, and called up my prep team; they deemed me ready, and I got my messenger bag and trooped to my car. I was told via text that we would all be needed at 8 am on the dot. No Claire Haruno, just me and my thoughts. I only realized when I was already on my to the Intervista a costruire, the interview building, in my Shroud, that I didn't even say goodbye to my friend. I shrugged, since knowing Otto, he'd be there first.

I arrived at the building, was ushered in by a young Irish woman; she put a lapel microphone unto my dress, and pulled into the green room. The 18 other Alphas were either sitting down, standing up, or leaning against something. I found Otto with ease, and he said nothing of my clothes. I took that as a good sign. I spotted the Cardinals, all of them looking picture-perfect. Me and Otto talked about random things; the painting, the Cardinals, and the food being served in the green room. I didn't notice time passing.

The Irish woman came in again, telling us that we were to go out now. I wobbled out of the room with Otto and the rest of the Alphas. The crowd in the studio clapped and cheered. There was a long semicircular shaped sofa, and a pair of higher-than-usual chairs stood on a platform. We sat down. The host, Helios Xylander, was a charming faced Greek man with dark brown hair.

"Welcome everyone, to the introductory interview session for this year's ISA freshmen! I'm Helios Xylander, your host. Now let's call our first interviewee, shall we?"

Helios called a name I didn't know. And another. Then Laura and Shelby's. He interviewed them all, and I didn't listen. Then two I did know.

"Claire Haruno and Wing Fanchu."

Claire walked confidently up the platform. She crossed her legs as she sat down. She was wearing a curve-hugging white dress with a red hem and a circular cutout in the back. She wore red heels with that. Wing stood by her side in a white military uniform that made him look like he was in the navy. A red stripe went up his sleeve.

"Since both of you are from Japan, we decided to call you at the same time. So upon coming here, what did you like about the island?"

Claire replied in a cool, composed voice. He asked another question, then Wing answered in his measured voice. I really didn't listen. Until something caught my attention.

Behind the chair, Wing's hand grasped Claire's. I knew it. They liked each other. The camera focused on me then on what I was staring at. The crowd gasped at the sight.

"My my, what lit this flame?" asked Helios to the new couple. Claire ducked her head bashfully, sending a cascade of midnight hair down with her. Wing smoothed away her hair and looked in Claire's eyes. I swore I saw love. Or something else. The crowd said nothing. Neither did Helios. Then the crowd gave a cheesy sounding "Yee" as I heard. They blushed, and Helios told them to take a seat.

"Innokentiy Thomas."

I shot up at the mention of my name, and smiled my best. I sat down on the chair where Claire sat seconds ago. He shook my hand.

"So Innokentiy... How is the island? For you, I mean," said Helios, grinning viciously at me. "Well, it's been really great, in the few days I've been here," I replied. "Good, good. We-the audience, the world-have been interested in one thing, which is how it feels to be Nikki Volkov's only daughter." I smiled demurely, just like my mentor told me to. My mother, if you didn't know, just so happens to be a world-renowned muse of the arts. "My mum is just like any other mother; overprotective, controlling, and yet loving," I replied coolly. "I knew it, Nikki always was a bit too eager to control people," Helios grinned, baring his pearly white teeth once more. I was getting tired of his smile. It looked fake.

"Everybody's curious now, Innokentiy; do you have a boyfriend?" asked Helios after a short pause. I grinned bashfully. "No, no I don't," I proclaimed sheepishly. "It's fine; though I expected that a pretty girl like you would have one," Helios teased. "Oh really?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow. Helios paused and laughed. "Well you definitely inherited Nikki's sense of humor!" he roared. I laughed along. "Thanks very much, Innokentiy, take a seat."

I walked back to my seat between Otto and a French boy. We all held our breath. Almost every name was called except Otto's.

"Otto Malpense."

Otto stood up boyishly, walking up to the platform. He wore a black tuxedo. Helios shook his hand, and let him sit down. I couldn't understand why they talked so easily about stuff and I didn't. Maybe because they were boys. Yeah, that was it. They switched topics so fast I didn't know where they were anymore. First it was the island, second was his first piece, then it was his hair. I didn't bother following the conversation.

"You're a great artist, Otto; and every artist has a muse. More often than not, an artist's muse is his beloved. My we ask who she is?" Helios asked when I managed to get bored enough to pay attention. Otto rubbed his nape. "Well, uh, I don't have a girlfriend," Otto stammered. "How about a crush?" asked Helios. "Well, there's this girl. She and I aren't really from the same country," he replied, color rising in his cheeks. A girl, eh? I won't ever live this down. "Can you describe her for us?" said Helios, leaning over his seat. "Her eyes are grey; like molten silver; her hair is the lightest blond in the whole world, as if the sun lent her its light; and her voice is soft, though her words speak volumes," Otto described. I didn't worry; I wasn't the only blond in this whole group. "Well why don't you tell her then? She seems so beautiful."

"I can't," Otto lamented. "Where does this angel come from?" Helios inquired, taking interest in this. "She's Russian."

The camera focused on me. I could feel the color rise in my cheeks. How could this have happened? I couldn't love him, even if he looked good. I could hear the speech of my mother already. She would kill me for even making friends with Otto. "Oh my! Love is something you can't avoid here!" Helios exclaimed. Otto flew from the platform. He sat down beside me and took my hand. I didn't know what or how to feel. I was numb. Maybe mother was screaming at me through our television, and going to call me any second. The crowd cheered.

We were told to exit. I wanted to run out, but Otto took me by the hand and ran for me. I was amazed at how fast he truly was. He stopped at the front of the building, where there was a landing before the high steps. I was blinded by the bright light of cameras flashing. Who knew the ISA even _had_ paparazzi? He pulled me close and did the one thing I never thought he'd do.

He kissed me.

I wanted to slap him, but I couldn't. He was too nice, and he didn't deserve it. He stopped. He stretched his arms out in front of the paparazzi and screamed out one sentence.

"I LOVE INNOKENTIY MADELEINE THOMAS AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO SAY IT!"

He dragged me down the steps, pulled me through the crowd and threw me inside his car. Once we were inside, he revved up the engine and drove off.

"What the hell was that?!" I exclaimed. "Mentor told me to," he replied morosely, "and your car is being parked at the Unterkunft this very second." I wanted to scream, slap him, and escape. But no, it was impossible, since those cameras couldn't help but take pictures of me. I sighed instead.

This was the longest morning in the world.

* * *

**See that! **

**That was important!**

**HA!**

**R&R!  
**


	16. Immediate Interrogations

**I am pleased to announce that my two only fans have also been following this story!**

**I'm so proud! *wipes tear of joy away***

**So to all of you, who also have been following, thank you very much! **

**In Kent's point of view, it's more relatable. **

**I own nothing but Kent and Claire. **

**ILY ALL! –Double Entente**

"Something wrong?" Otto asked. "Why did you have to follow what that damned mentor told you to?!" I screamed. "If you didn't notice, Madeleine, the Haruno-Fanchu romance thing gathers interest. And what do you think gathers after interest? I'll tell you; if some rich, pompous bitch finds a little romance interesting, they will gather their friends and tell them to support that pairing, thus investing a large sum of money just for one or two lip locks between a pair. Nero forgot to tell us that whatever that investor puts on your plate, you get to take that home too, no matter if you graduate with honors or not. That's guaranteed money," he replied.

I froze. Guaranteed money? Otto sure wanted that. If he had enough, he could put it in a bank account, and save that for a studio/gallery. And second of all, Madeleine? Please. I hated my middle name. "So you want me to pretend I love you, just so you can harbor enough money for that gallery of yours?" I asked in return. "Yes, now we have to get out now. Ready?" he asked as he held his pale hand out for me to hold. I nodded. If I was to pretend I loved him, I had to make nice with those bloody cameras.

"Inno! Over here, sweetheart! Just one smile for the cameras? Come on, Inno!" said one of the camera-wielding misfits. "Get lost, will you all? We're not movie stars or socialites. Shove off!" said Otto to the throng as we struggled to get to the door. "No, you're better, Otto, you're teenagers!" joked the other one. I though I saw Otto's peaceful, bohemian nature flicker. Then he delivered a punch to one of the camera-people's jaw, clearing the way for us. That person fell to the floor, saying, "Chill, Mikey! No need to break my jaw!" I didn't even know he knew how to deliver a punch.

Once he pulled me into the elevator, I sighed of relief. "Mikey? Where d'you think he got that?" Otto asked. "Maybe they heard me call you Michelangelo," I replied coolly. "Hey, only you get to call me that," he said, tweaking my nose. I wanted to question his actions, but I bit my tongue. There were even cameras here. They followed us wherever we went, save for the dorms. But even Otto said that when he saw how far the photographer's camera's zoom went, he told me to act like I loved him near the huge window.

He swiped the keycard in the reader and we walked in. Immediately, I kicked off my heels. They were killing me. I set down my bag and turned on my phone. Otto muttered something about changing back as I sat down on the chaise longue. My phone suddenly rang as Otto came out wearing a t-shirt and some Bermuda shorts. I checked the number. I knew who it was immediately.

My mother.

I took a deep breath and pressed the answer button.

"Innokentiy, put me on speaker and call your new lover," commanded my mother. I whispered to Otto who it was, and he sighed. I pressed the speakerphone button. "Yes mother, he's here," I said. "Good. Now boy, do you really love my daughter?" asked my mother. "Yes I do, Mrs. Thomas," he replied in a firm, measured voice. My eyes widened. Was he lying to my mother as well? "Innokentiy, do you love this boy?" asked my mother next. My eyes questioned Otto. He nodded. "_Da_," I replied softly. "Is he anything like your father?" asked mother. "He is like my father in so many ways, mother, that is why I love him," I managed to lie. "Well, you have my blessing, but your father wishes to talk to..To…" my mother trailed off. I don't even think she knew his name. "Otto, Mrs. Thomas, my name is Otto," he replied. "Right. You have my full, unwavering blessing, Otto, and remember this; you break my daughter's heart, I break your pretty little face," my mother threatened.

"Yes, Mrs. Thomas, I understand your conditions," Otto replied. He was smirking. "Now, turn the speaker phone off, and give the phone to Otto," mother said in a calmer voice. I obediently turned the speaker phone off and handed my Hiptop to Otto with shaky hands. He was talking to my father. MY FATHER. Whose fury was worse than the wrath of God. Okay, I had to admit, I rarely saw him angry. I was just too damn busy being an emo-writer. Otto spent about half an hour talking to my father, which left me watching a DVD of_ Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber From Fleet Street. _Once my dad finished interrogating my "boyfriend", Otto told me that Stephen wanted to talk to me. I took the phone to my ear.

"Yes dad?" I asked nervously. "That Otto boy seems good enough. Just uh, wait, okay?" said my dad in his regular voice. "Yeah, sure, dad, I'll wait," I replied. I wondered _what_ I would be waiting for. "Good luck, sweetheart, and don't be afraid to call me when a certain someone does some _very bad _things, like breaking your competence," my dad joked. "Yeah dad, I'll call," I replied. "Okay. Bye, sweetheart," my dad said finally after a long line of reminders. "Goodbye." I ended the call.

Otto sat elatedly beside me, watching Johnny Depp decapitate a bearded man. "So what did my dad tell you?" I asked as he handed me a stick of gum. "Nothing much. Y'know, the usual stuff they'd ask your newest boyfriend," he replied, unwrapping one stick of gum. "I haven't had a lot of boyfriends in the past," I said unknowingly. Once I realized what I just said, I blew bubbles with the gum instead to calm myself. "Oh? How many?" he asked. "A few," I replied, spitting the gum into the foil wrapper and throwing it in the trash. "Come on, pretty girl like you, you must've had the longest line of heart-broken boys in all of Russia!" Otto teased. I wondered if he was just padding my ego with compliments. "I only had 2 boyfriends, and I broke up with them because I found them annoying and self-centered."

* * *

**That was short, I know, but I'm trying to be productive. **

**R&R if you wish.  
**


	17. Tea in The Groves

**Okay, let us now go to the night of the boyfriend issue, where Kent can't really separate fact from fiction anymore. **

**Let's see where boundaries lead. **

**Though it's something to tug at your heart, I guarantee you. Kent continues to narrate in this chapter, if you're curious.**

**I repeat, I own nothing but my OCs. **

**Apprécier!**

* * *

_I'm so sorry, Otto, there weren't any sponsors," said Nero to Otto with a frown. "That's fine. But did I win?" asked Otto. "No, Otto, someone else did." Otto scowled. He wished for that guaranteed money ever since he put up with this whole charade. "This is your fault," said Otto to me, colder and harsher than the Otto I knew. "I-It's not," I stutter. "It is. If you didn't give up on the strategy, both of us would have a secure financial future," he replied robotically. "No-no-I-it's not my fault, Otto! Honest!" I cried, tears blooming in my eyes. "Please. It is your fault entirely," he replied, slapping me away. "NO! I TRIED AS HARD AS YOU DID! IT'S BOTH OUR FAULTS!"_ _I screamed. _

I woke up, perhaps in the middle of the night, from the state of the sky outside, cold sweat down my back and tears rolling down my cheeks. A nightmare, nothing more. What do I usually do when I get nightmares again? Tea, was it? Yes, tea. A cup of tea shall calm my nerves.

I walked out of my room shakily in my nightdress, fetching the kettle and pouring some water in it. I sat down on one of the stools in the breakfast island. I selected my tea. Perhaps a chamomile infusion. For my nerves. I waited for the kettle to boil, and upon hearing the whistle, I got my teacup and the tea.

I poured the hot water over the tealeaves, letting the aroma fill my senses. I heard a creak as I took a sip, but I ignored it.

Otto walked out of his room, took the kettle, got a teacup, and fetched the tea. He sat on the stool opposite me. "Nightmare?" he asked. "Yeah," I replied weakly over the fumes. "Oh," he sighed. "Why'd you wake up? It's the middle of the night," I said. "I heard you and I thought you might want some company," he answered, taking a sip of his tea. "You awoke from your sleep because you heard my footsteps?" I asked. "I wasn't actually sleeping," he replied. Only now did I notice the streak of blue black paint across his cheek. "Painting?" I asked back. "Yes. I'm doing some impressionist stuff, you know, steer away from the realism once in a while," he said, wiping the paint away with his sleeve. "But your forte is the realism thing, right?" I drank the chamomile infusion. "I just need to have some variety in my work," he sighed. I feel woozy from the tea. I think I let it steep too long. I stumble over the stool, half asleep.

"Kent? You okay?" he asked. I mumbled sleep. "I'll just get you back to your room, and if you need me, just call," he said, taking my sleeping form into his arms for a lift; I didn't think his strength capable of doing that. Then I feel air surrounding me, and for a moment, my eyes flutter, and all I see is Otto; standing over me, face calm. My eyes droop, and I black out once more.

Sunlight sears through my eyes, forcing me to open them. A silk blanket was thrown over me, and a figure laid slump on my chair. It was Otto, fast asleep, head bowed low. "Otto," I croaked, his blue eyes snapped open, and he smiled at me. So I wasn't dreaming. He was here.

"You didn't have to stand watch over me all night," I said, getting my robe from the hanger. "It's fine," he replied, smoothing his disheveled white mane down. "If you say so," I said, slipping on my robe. "So you're okay?" he asked. I nodded, and he went out of my room, leaving me to think and dress.

I put on today's outfit; a simple turquoise t-shirt, dark blue jeans, red Chuck Taylors, and white framed wayfarers. I got my messenger bag, filled with my essentials; a pen, correction tape, my notebook, my phone, my wallet, and my key card. I called up my prep team; they misted shine spray on my hair, applied powder to my face, and glossed my lips in pink. They showed me in the mirror, and I just nodded my approval. They said something about Otto. Great. Even they think we're real.

They complimented Kira's styling, and I just said my thanks.

I walked outside of my room, the prep team followed me, and Otto was seated on the chaise longue, messing with his phone. I cleared my throat, and he looked at me. "You look great," he said, a wry smile on his lips. "Thank you," I replied, and I heard the prep team whispering compliments on our "relationship" behind my back.

I must say; Otto's stylist really is getting ahead of herself. Today he wears a dark blue t-shirt, some jeans, and white- and- red trainers. His no-nonsense backpack of art essentials was slung casually over his shoulder. The effect is appealing; boyish, bohemian, yet refined.

"Separate cars?" he asked, breaking me out of my perception. "Yeah. Meet you there, Otto?" I replied, not quite ready yet to call him pet names. "Yeah. See you, love?" he asks. I felt my heart flutter, but I ignored this. Our "love", after all, is just an amplified game of let's pretend. "Yeah," I replied, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. He waves goodbye as I take the elevator down alone.

I dug my car keys out of my pocket, and put the car alarm off of my Enzo. I stepped in, put the key in the ignition, and drove off to our venue for today's classes; the place they call _Les Bosquets_, and since my mother had bugged me to take French, Italian, and Greek, I understood what this meant. The Groves.

Once I arrived at _Les Bosquets_, I am entranced by its uncongenial, untouched beauty. Evergreen trees enveloped the canopy, and sunlight peeped through its leaves. There are pieces of columns and temples, perhaps from a ruin. It's simply enchanting. It's as if I can stay here forever. I heard a rustle. I thought it's probably just the wind. I looked to my back, and a boy with white hair stared right back at me. I jumped.

"God, Otto, I didn't know you were there!" I said, as he gathered his materials up and put them in his bag. "I was here earlier than you, I felt like painting," he replied calmly. "But didn't I leave first?" I asked as I helped him pick up the paintbrushes on the floor of the grove/ruin. A tingle ran up my arm as our hands touched feebly over one of the brushes. "I just got here early," he said after a long pause. "Oh."

"Students!" I heard a voice say, and we both glanced at the speaker. Nero. "Today you will be taking your classes here, in the groves. I suggest traveling with a friend, since these groves are dense with fauna."

Otto held out his hand for me, and I took it. I glanced briefly at the Cardinals: Shelby and Laura partnered up, seeing as they enjoyed each other's company; Claire and Wing gladly intertwined hands. I don't even know if theirs is real or about as real as Otto and mine.

"Your teachers are among these groves; and you all must be wondering why we are taking our classes here; simple. You have been holed up in a building for a few days, and you have yet to see the groves. Your plush city lifestyles are already used to your Unterkunft, Vivenda, Alojamiento or Stanovanje. A true artist must let his mind wander beyond the polished walls of civilization. Nature gives one great inspiration. Like it has given me: I stumbled upon this island and found the groves first. I wanted to preserve this place, so that other young bohemians would find it and learn to free themselves from the norm acts of the world. I wanted this place to become a sanctuary for the persecuted because of their art. This should be the place where all artists should find the wood nymphs of their craft; the one person who can inspire to do the very best."

I wanted to record everything Nero said. He never struck me as a poet, but I was wrong. But Otto beat me to it. His phone was out, and once Nero finished his speech, he snapped it shut.

I wanted to go home, honestly.

I just couldn't.

* * *

**Okay, that was kinda boring. **

**R&R if you wish.**


	18. Paternal Communications

**Look, a new chapter!**

**Isn't it astonishing how I don't mention Wing and Claire very often?**

**Well I'm dedicating a WHOLE CHAPTER to both of them. **

**Ain't it great?**

**Read on.**

* * *

Claire examined her lithe form in the mirror; she had curves in ALL the right places, unblemished and fair skin, and a crowning glory of ebony tresses.

She couldn't imagine why Wing didn't make advances toward her. Back home, which was Tokyo, she was always the girl with the pants boys wanted to get in.

Maybe the boy had morals. Or maybe because he was a rock star and rockers were playboys. She sat down on her bed. Maybe Wing did like her, and he didn't show it. _Whatever the reason,_ she thought, _I_ _always have Len._

Len Fyurojima was a boy, not strikingly handsome (unlike another Japanese male), but cute enough. She shuddered at the thought of his face, alabaster skinned and welcoming.

She stroked her own arm, bored to exhaustion. The world thought she was just another Paris Hilton. Stupid, shallow, and unassuming. She was, after all, the younger daughter of the great Daisuke Haruno of the Haruno clan. Her father had done some breakthrough with LED or something, and the world just loved him for that. Within 24 hours he was swimming in currency of every kind. At least that was the story.

Claire looked at herself once more in the mirror. She wore a nice silken dress that grazed her knees in the purest of whites, some silk flats of the same color, and a cherry blossom in her hair.

The dress she wore had petticoats, and the lace sleeves reached to her elbow. The neckline was round, and it showed the least skin than all the dresses she wore since she got on the island.

This was the dress she was supposed to don as maid of honor.

She cried a little as she thought of Stella Renee Haruno-now probably a Takashi, and laughing with Katsu in the lavish bedroom as she watched her little 'Ali' turn into the composed Claire.

She missed her sister so.

She wiped away her tears, reapplied her mascara, and exited her bedroom.

Wing was sitting on the large winged armchair he always sat at, and soon she discovered; her muse was singing.

He sounded like a dream. As if he was not real, and Claire was making it all up. But the words he sang were what made him real. The fierce emotion in his eyes. The way he strummed his guitar. The way he looked so at ease yet out of place.

"_With every breath that I am worth, here on Earth, I'm sending all my love to you. So if you dare to second guess, you can rest assured that all my love's for you."_

Claire grinned. He seemed to be feeling the lyrics.

"You okay, BJ?" she asked, using that nickname she used for him, since he liked Green Day so much. He looked up, startled, and then his lips spread into a wry smile. "Yeah, it's all part of the lyrics," he replied, throwing her the guitar pick. She caught it blindly.

"I'm hungry," she complained. He rolled his eyes. "Go order room service if you're too hungry to go down to the city and eat," Wing replied, putting his guitar away. She grinned even more. "Since when did you roll your eyes?" she asked, sitting down on the floor.

"Since now, Claire," he replied, taking the guitar pick from her. She shrugged. "You were hungry?" he asked, unfolding from his relaxed position to a height of over six feet.

She stared at the tall boy. His inky black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his face showed no emotion, as usual. She didn't really think him an ohmigod-he's-so-hot-I-could-die kind of guy. He was one of those who you can't really get to. Or figure out.

"See anything you like?" he asked as he saw her scrutinizing him. She rolled her big blue eyes. He raised an eyebrow. Great. He was flirting with her and he wasn't even trying. Just great.

"Kidding, Claire, I'm just kidding," he said, raising his arms up in mock surrender. Claire turned on the television to the news of the island.

"Good morning everyone, it's me Ellie Stark, the island's connection to the outside world," the woman paused. "Only yesterday did our students find out about the sponsorship program ongoing as we speak. And today, we have brought together the five most important sponsors who can really make or break an artisan's street cred. We have Miss Elizabeth Hayes, of Hayes Galleries, and…"

Claire put her foot on the ottoman in front of her. None of these sponsors were worth her time. Then she saw the stately and imposing Japanese man at the end of the line of sponsors.

"And finally Mr. Daisuke Haruno, father of our very own Claire, founder and CEO of Haruno Laboratories, and the man who can take away your future with a wave of his hand."

Claire's jaw dropped. She shot up, started towards her room, and left Wing with a raised eyebrow. Once there, she picked her phone up and ran back into the living area.

She dialed her dad's number, and as promised, a phone rang during the interview.

"Mr. Haruno, was that yours?" asked Ellie. "Yes, you must excuse me," replied Mr. Haruno, hastily pressing the receive call button on his Blackberry.

"Yes?" asked Daisuke to Claire. "Dad, what the hell are you doing on the island?" spat Claire angrily. "Language, Clarissa, language," he growled back. "Fine. What are you doing on the island?" she persisted; now getting impatient at her father's stalling. "I'm only going to be here today, then I'm going to New York to check on the laboratories there. Happy now I've told you everything, Clarissa?" said her father finally after her impatient whining. "Thank you, Father," she breathed back.

"Your dad?" asked Wing. "Yeah. He won't talk unless you annoy him," she replied, putting her own Blackberry in her pocket.

"Oh. Okay."

* * *

**Wing lost his morals for one second. **

**Sorry, it came out that way. **

**Don't kill me.**


	19. Wining And Dining 101

**AN UPDATE!!!!**

**K, so this is what happened. **

**Nothing much, really. I find it boring too.**

**Don't lie; I know that my last chapter seemed boring.**

**I own nothing but my OCs. Two newbies. **

**Luminita Yelizaveta Funar, music major and violin player, of Romania. Kielo Vilhelmiina Virtanen, music major and piano accompanist to best friend Luminita Yelizaveta Funar of Romania, born Finnish. *applause***

* * *

"I'm not here to beg, Kent, I'm here to tell you that we should go already," said an exasperated Otto to the girl he was pretending to love. "I see that, Otto, but that is not a reason for me to leave my car in this parking lot to use yours!" replied a stubborn Kent, who was beginning to hate her mentor, whose name she already forgot. She remembered it was Aleksandra.

Otto sighed. Damn the mentor who told him that he'd have to kiss, pretend to love, and wine-and-dine this girl. As much as she was a great friend, partner-in-crime, and visual subject, Otto was not ready to "love" Innokentiy Madeleine Thomas. As he discovered, (hold on to your hat) she was one hell of a kisser, and heaven knows if she was pretending to like it or not.

"Well, Love, the mentor told me that you and I would share the Shroud. I thought we were going to follow the mentor?" he asked the stubborn blond girl, whose grey eyes were a flurry of indifference. "Don't call me Love," she said, her voice a mere whisper of cold. "Fine, Kent. Now please, get in the car," he mustered up in a very tired voice.

They were in the parking lot of the Unterkunft, and Kent was standing beside the passenger door of Otto's car. Her lips were upturned in an immortal scowl no amount of joy would change. "No, and I'm being polite. I don't wish to exercise my right to shouting, screaming, bawling, and in short acting completely _Claire!_" replied Kent, this time her voice rising to a sarcastic drawl. "Yeah-wait-what the hell did you just say?" he asked, fair eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "LEAVE-ME-TO-DRIVE-MY-OWN-CAR," she replied, already drawing up her keys.

He sighed. He didn't like resorting to boyish charm, it was frightfully shallow. Almost reluctantly, he walked to the passenger side and came close to the girl. She continued to scowl, a cool determination in her grey eyes. He came close to her ear, and to his surprise, she refused to back away. "I'm asking you to get in my car, be patient, and pretend that you're deeply, madly, and crazy in love with me. Will you please do that for more than a million?"

She scrutinized him for a few seconds, and then nodded. He sighed of relief and opened the car door for the girl. He went back to his side, opened the door, and got into the car.

"Right, classes are in the city. In some old mansion. People told me through the internet," said Kent, flipping open her phone. "Okay, where?" Otto asked as she tapped her phone feverishly. "Make a right here, then straight ahead until the corner," she replied automatically, not looking up from the phone.

He sighed, and then continued to rev up the engine and driving off to her directions. She didn't speak to him once, though she did cough her approval as he stopped in front of a mansion where a Bentley was parked.

He took the key out of the ignition. He locked his blue eyes at the blond beside him, who was looking dreamily out the window. "Look: I know you still hate me for kissing you in front of all those people, but you have to understand the fact that either of us will go home with anything if I don't do something. I know I'm the worst pretend boyfriend in the whole universe but I need you to know that I sincerely think of you as my best friend. I've been living seventeen years all alone in a London flat that I paid for myself every month, no one to talk to who understands my way of life. Now you're a writer who wants people to know my story, and I don't deny that I love you platonically for that!" He finished his long monologue by punctuating the 'I love you' part. She looked at him with a sparkle in her cold grey eyes. Her scowl upturned into a soft grin, and she put a pale hand on his cheek. "If you only wanted to say I'm your best friend, you didn't have to go all Shakespeare on me. That's my title!" She grinned.

She took down her hand immediately, though it was too much of a good thing. He turned away, and then smiled wryly to himself. "Well? What are we sitting in here for? We've got about a million people to make believe that we're in love!" announced Kent, picking up her bag and opening the door for herself. Otto nodded and opened his door. As expected, photographers were there, capturing every moment as they walked into the mansion. As usual, the Cardinals were there, Claire and Wing engaging in some conversation with Laura and Shelby.

Kent didn't really think of Claire as an ally (as shown by her comparison of her and young Miss Haruno) but rather as an enemy. Claire, with her drop-dead gorgeous smile, to Kent and her boyish demeanor. Claire, with her mansion of pure gold to Kent, with her quaint apartment of cobblestone. Claire, with her natural charisma and charm, to Kent, with her silent inscrutability. Claire versus Kent, and somehow, in terms of looks, Claire always won.

Thus Kent hated her.

Kent got her notebook from her bag, and then took out her pen. She strayed away from Otto, who forgot to restrain-er, I mean,-hold her hand. She began to write as she was walking, and she knocked over a petite strawberry blond. "Oh crap! I'm so sorry," she apologized, pulling the shorter girl up. "Nah, it's okay. I get knocked over all the time," the girl replied in a high-pitched voice. The girl and Kent broke into a fit of chuckles. "Never got to introduce myself. Hi, I'm Innokentiy Thomas, but I prefer to be called Kent," said Kent, extending her arm to the girl. "Luminita Funar. You can call me Lu if you think it's too long," she replied, an accent thickly laying her speech. "Romania, Lu? I'm from Russia," said Kent, detecting Luminita's origins. "I knew that, you're all over the news! You're that girl that, erm, _guy_ likes," Luminita replied, blushing when she said guy. Kent raised a perfect blond eyebrow. "You _like_ Otto?" she asked, nudging the girl softly. "Well, you aren't mad, are you? Because, after all, this is just a-a schoolgirl crush, it'll die down, after all, you've just met me and now I confess I like your _boyfriend_! I'm terribly sorry," she apologized, looking deep into Kent's grey eyes for any reaction. "Nah, it's alright.-she then caught Otto's curious gaze- Bet he has a lot of followers in London, crying right now too," she replied, closing her notebook and stowing her pen away.

She winked in Otto's direction.

**

* * *

Ooh, didn't expect to see that precious wink, did you?**

**Ha, that's called magic. **

**And you know where you can see more magic?**

**Press that green button down there, and then you'll see ALL the magic. :P**


	20. I Can Transform Ya Stronger

**Ah yes, rare winks from Innokentiy Madeleine Thomas. **

**Guess what happens in class that day. **

**Done guessing? Good. **

**I still only own my OCs. **

**See if your guess was right. **

* * *

"Good morning, everyone, I'm sure you're all terribly sleepy right now," the very attractive Ms. Leon began. "So we've got a very simple exercise to get your blood flowing. I've paired you up entirely too early. We'll be drawing names up from a hat."

Kent's mentor Nadya (she finally remembered) told her to tell the stylist that she'd have dance class first period so that she'd be dressed appropriately. Thus, Kent was dressed happily in a plain white shirt, some dark blue lounge pants, and red trainers. She was especially happy that she'd be wearing trainers.

Personally, Kent thought she had two left feet. That was somewhat confirmed after entering The Russian School of Ballet for a few years then quitting, then being forced into entering The Royal School of Ballet, and also quitting. Either way, she quit. She was a quitter when it came to dancing. When she was in ballet school, she was often told to soften up, since she had the grace of an irksome little boy. She never did get rid of her somewhat tomboy-ish swagger.

The Russian girl stood rather comfortably in a somewhat darker corner of the dance studio, among the shadows. Beside her was the British boy, talking to her about the new member of The Cardinals.

Kielo Virtanen was the new member; with pretty hazel eyes, shiny chocolate brown curls, and the lithe form of a gymnast, nobody would've guessed that she was the piano pride of Finland. She got along well with Laura Brand, and they got along with Wing and Claire, who also got along with Shelby Trinity. They all got along well together, and they were what the Americans called "Pop Kids". Wing was already proclaimed "the _sexiest _boy in the whole batch" and Claire was proclaimed the prettiest. They were an image of pure perfection, something the cynical writer in Kent doubted. Kielo worked along with the other Cardinals, her unusual Finnish charm fitting to the others' respective fortes.

Luminita Funar stood on the other side of Kent, talking to her as well about her newly popular roommate. "She was nice, and she didn't mind accompanying my violin. Then she gets all popular, now she refuses to even let me practice with her." She sighed, her lichen-colored eyes lowering to shoe level. "That's life, Lu. Some people get popular, they get mean, then everyone forgives them for it," Kent replied plainly.

Luminita nodded, though she was unconvinced. They tried listening to Ms. Leon's instructions. Ms. Leon herself was an attractive sight; she had russet-red hair that came in waves, which framed a diamond-shaped face, which contained rosy pink lips, arresting cornflower-blue eyes, and a pert feminine nose. She had a dancer's form, and no boy complained to that.

"Today you get paired up with members of your own gender. No switching. And I'm going to give you a few minutes to study the music I assign to you, and then you have to present it to the class. The order of presentations is random, and the only rule here is you have to be synchronized with your partner. When you and your pair exhibit perfect synchronization, I will call your names out for another number with another pair. There's a prize if all four of you get it right; one full day of privacy. Now form a line, get a piece of paper from the hat, and hand it to me. I read the name out for you and your partner. That clear, Alpha stream?"

"Yes Miss Leon," they chorused, all agitated and anxious for whom their partner was going to be. That would decidedly determine everything, because if you were lucky, you'd get a dancing student, and that would be a sure win, and you'd get one full day of privacy. Everyone currently wanted that.

They formed a messy line, and name by name was called out.

Wing was at the front, finally, and he shuffled around the hat for a piece of paper. Once he got the one at the very bottom, he handed it to Ms. Leon.

"Otto Malpense! You're partners with Wing Fanchu!"

Otto went to the front with a raised eyebrow. He knew Wing Fanchu possibly disliked him, but he really didn't know.

"Alright you two, your song is this one," Ms. Leon began, handing Wing a disk. "You're going to do yours after Ms. Virtanen and Ms. Trinity's. Go rehearse over there." She pointed to a black door in a corner. They shuffled over to the place, which was a small recording room, complete with a professional CD player. There was enough space for dancing, and the walls seemed to be soundproof.

"So erm, I only met you on the plane. But I was thinking this," Wing trailed off, relaying his great plan to Otto. He nodded, but at the end of his plan, he asked a question. "I'm not an expert at this, but will it work to the music?"

Wing's brow arched up. "It will."

Otto nodded, and asked for the disk. Wing obliged, handing him the plastic disk. He popped it in the CD player, and a robotic tune began to play.

To be honest, Otto liked the song. It was robotic. He always did like techno and synth-pop.

Wing showed him everything he was planning to do, and Otto nodded in both intimidation and assent. So this rocker, who also happened to play the piano, was light on his feet as well? Interesting.

Whatever Wing did, Otto found that he could do it as well. He too could copy the moderately difficult moves of Wing Fanchu.

"So you're pretty good at this after all!" Wing exclaimed, patting Otto brotherly on the back. Wing noticed something. A dream came playing back in his head. It was the one he had when he found out he was going to the ISA in the first place, the one about the white-haired boy.

Otto managed to grin, after Wing's display of brotherly affection. Wing's gesture hurt, like being hit in the back by a bag of bricks.

"Have you been to Japan, Otto?" Wing asked rather suddenly. Otto recalled all seventeen years of his life. "Erm, I may have. I only remember fields of green grass."

Something in Wing's brain clicked. "Ever have a friend named Tsubasa?" he asked, using his childhood moniker.

Otto raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? I only remember going to a field and telling him that I wasn't allowed to talk to him anymore."

Wing gave Otto a boy's one-armed hug. "I had a friend named Oliver, I think that was his name, and he had white hair too."

Otto jerked away. He used to be called little Oliver Arkwright, because of the son Mr. Arkwright wanted to have. He was taken in by Mr. Arkwright when he was four or five, but he could remember a Tsubasa.

"So you're saying, I knew you? And you knew me?" he asked. "Probably," Wing replied, "I remember an Oliver. And you remember a Tsubasa. My mother gave me that name. She called me that as a child."

"Cool," Otto murmured. How could that be? A popular person, being friends with him in childhood? There weren't a lot of childhood memories worth remembering, so he forgot most of it. He remembered little pieces, like names, but he guessed that this would work somehow with his current situation.

"Yeah. So you get the whole dance, right, Oliv-I mean, Otto?" Wing asked. Otto nodded. They exited the room as two newfound friends, and nobody seemed to care. Until Otto started laughing madly at a joke Wing told. Kent noticed this.

Kent, meanwhile, was partnered up with Claire, much to her disappointment. Claire had told her to do everything, because she assumed that because she was Russian, she was automatically graceful and dancing-accustomed. Which she was the exact opposite of. Claire even laughed when she slipped on something and fell flat on the floor. She in turn, mustered up all the boyish moves she could think of, so that Claire would have a hard time. Claire refused to admit that she was having difficulty with the whole plan, and insulted Kent with every chance she had. Kent fumed, but continued her boyish torrent.

As they went out, Kent noticed that Otto and Wing were having a civilized chat and it seemed to be funny for the two boys. She refused to associate with Claire, seeing as she already hated her.

"Virtanen, Trinity," Ms. Leon paused, "that was _awespiring. _Miss Virtanen, are you sure they placed you in the right place for piano? You could prosper as a dancer," she said as they returned to their voyeuristic positions.

"Fanchu! Malpense! Your turn!"

Otto and Wing strolled to the center, half-chortling. Ms. Leon played the music, which was a robotically infectious tune. The two danced in perfect timing of each other, and it seemed like they actually _enjoyed_ each other's skill.

Kent found that Otto wasn't so bad at dancing after all. Unlike her.

After the performance that changed everyone's view of Otto, a lot of girls and boys fainted. Kent turned to her companion, Luminita, and discovered she was fanning herself. Curious, our favorite Russian writer turned to the two performers.

Wing dripped with sweat, his shirt clung to his masculine form, and his ponytail was being weighed down. Beads of sweat gleamed on Otto's pale forehead. His pale face was tinged a bit red. His blue eyes twinkled with joy. She smiled, not because they were such, because Otto seemed happy.

She applauded them with the rest of the group which was still conscious. Otto happily returned to her side, clutching a small towel and wiping his face with it.

"You were good," she commented politely. "Nah, I wasn't. I was just copying Wing," he replied, wiping his forehead. "You're friends?" she asked a little curiously. "You could say we're old friends. When we were little. Just think of him as an acquaintance," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow, but shook her head. Perhaps they really were friends from childhood.

"Thomas! Haruno! You're up!"

Kent glared at Claire, who confidently sauntered into the center. Their song was a much synthesized track, very boyish, much to Kent's advantage.

Claire and Kent, much to Kent's surprise, were in sync with each other.

Kent shuddered after.

She was as surprised as Otto was when four names were called, and it was them.

They wondered secretly what the music was, since the two people who created the two numbers were going to fight _somehow. _Didn't Kent not like being told what to do?_  
_

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Don't get it?**

**PM me or leave a review. **

**The latter is greatly appreciated. **


	21. Light My Candle

**K, we're going to skip what happened there. **

**Shan't we go to after classes?**

**I must tell you now that it is Friday, for that is relevant. **

**Thou shall understand soon enough. **

**I must remind thee that I own nothing but my original characters. **

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Kent was seated rather comfortably on her bed, in her room, reading the book her mother sent her. Even if Nikita Thomas knew that her daughter had read _Harry Potter _about seven times, she still urged her to read it again.

She was in the part where Draco Malfoy had appeared, and somehow, Kent's heart fluttered. Maybe it was because he reminded her of a friend she had, misunderstood, or maybe he had a striking resemblance to her friend.

Either way, Kent sipped the water beside her to calm her. She was writing today; Nero had assigned them to write ten chapters of a story that was loosely based on their new lives. Thus she was dressed in her mom's ratty old track shorts (yes, they wear shorts in Russia) from her years at Moscow State University, and her dad's overlong t-shirt from his years at the University of Buckingham. This was regarded as the most comfortable outfit, thus Kent usually wore it when she needed inspiration or luck. If her parent's clothes weren't so ratty and old, she'd wear them to dates.

For those were the clothes they wore when they met.

She was told the story countless times; Nikita Volkov went to London for a track and field competition in her senior year, and she met stumbled upon the stark misunderstood guy that went by the name of Stephen Thomas. They fell in love, after a few years, got married, then after a few years, bam, she was born.

Good thing they didn't name her something really stupid, like Patricia Marie. Because if they did, she'd have to live with choosing the stupidest name ever if there was more than one Patricia (which was terribly likely). She shook away that thought.

She took her glass of water and walked out of her room, trying to find inspiration. She looked out the window, not glancing at the room, alternately sipping her water.

She finally glanced at the door.

She spit out her water, surprised at the person standing there.

Otto was dressed in an expensive-looking pinstriped suit, with black trousers and shiny leather shoes. A black fedora with a grey ribbon was perched upon his head at an angle. He looked like an Italian mafia heir from the old movies.

She stood there in her ratty old clothes, feeling entirely underdressed.

Only then did she realize that Otto's mentor and her mentor were standing on either side of him, looking like his parents.

Nadya glared at her.

"That was not an act worthy of a lady, Innokentiy."

She straightened up, nervously looking at her clothing. "Go change, Innokentiy Madeleine. Your clothing is in the closet, in a dryclean bag. Sweet mother of Khrushchev, try and appear proper and God-fearing," said Nadya coldly, not breaking her glare.

She walked rigidly back into her room to find the said outfit.

It was in a dryclean bag, as promised. She looked upon it with disdain. It was a _dress_. She hated wearing dresses.

It was black; seemed to be made of fine lace and shiny silk, ¾ sleeved, with a square neckline. There were about fifty layers beneath the black façade, and she barely new how to walk in it once she'd gotten in. The only good thing was that she was wearing flats.

She managed to glide-yes, I said _glide_- out the door and carefully settled herself into a proper state. Her hair was in terrible condition, her eyes were bloodshot, and her hands were shaking. Nadya swiftly called up the prep team, fixed her up, deemed her ready, in about 5 minutes.

Most of her hair was pinned up in curls, and she disliked the blush they put upon her cheeks. They made her stand up again.

"What's happening that we have to get all dressed up?" she asked Otto as she clung unto his forearm in the elevator. "We're meeting everyone's parents," he grumbled. She understood where he was coming from: having no parents, he'd have no one to greet and show affection to. "Why?" she asked once more, in a lower voice. "Because they want last looks at their children in person."

She kept a straight face when she was seated in Otto's car. She also kept a straight face on as the many people were ushered in the ballroom.

A bright chandelier sparkled above them. She walked across the ballroom floor on Otto's arm, smiling and laughing when one of the parents said something funny.

Truth be told, she was scared of who would appear as Otto's parents. Perhaps Mr. Arkwright, the curator. She glanced around the room, and her eyes settled on Claire Haruno.

She wore a white dress of silk, and Wing stood by her side, proud of the pretty and ladylike girl who was laughing sheepishly behind her cream-colored fan. Who knew the bitch could act so demure and erm, _chaste?_ She ignored the throbbing questions in her head, and decided to actually talk with the people; they weren't going to see them for another six years. Otto seemed to be master of every conversation: easily changing the flow of topics from the stock exchange to the long lost piece of the great Michelangelo Buonnaroti. He seemed to enjoy the company. Thus Kent quietly excused herself and went into one of those olden cloak rooms they used in the 19th century. She closed the door, then searched around the folds of her dress, and found what she was looking for:

A steel pack of cigarettes attached to a steel flask.

Her father had handed it down to her, seeing as she was his only child. He said that her grandfather had used it in the war, and that it held so much value, since her grandfather was a sniper, and had killed more German than the Germans killed Jews. It was somehow normal for a Russian child to drink, since the main export was vodka. Kent never got drunk easy, since ever since she was little, her mother swigged vodka right in front of her and didn't care less if she took a sip or two.

She shuddered, and then took a stick from the packet. She lit it with the lighter she had in the other hand. She took a long drag; her life was going to be monitored for so long, and she'd have to go along pretending that she was something beside herself. This sucked. She let a puff of smoke descend lightly on all the coats in the room. She was sitting on an abandoned leather suitcase stacked on top of others, and her pale feet dangled freely off the edge. She sipped the fire whiskey, sending a shot of warmth down her spine. Her mother would kill her if she realized that not only was she drinking, she was _smoking _too. But of course, her father would be delighted that she was using his gift.

She sat there in the darkness, listening to the sound of her own breathing and only pausing to take a drag and drink. The door creaked open. She jumped off the suitcase, stamped out her cigarette, and then hid her flask in the folds of her dress.

"Who are you?" she called out to the darkness, unaware if this was a friend or much worse a parent. The person lit a match in the darkness, surrounding the both of them in a warm glow. The pale skin, blue eyes, and white hair gave him away. "Oh, it's just you," she breathed, plopping back down on her makeshift chair and lighting another cigarette. He stared at him through the dim light of the candle. "Could you get me one of those?" he asked, holding the candle to his face. She assented, finding her flask-cigarette case in her skirt. Once she'd found it, she handed him the stick. He mumbled his thanks, and lit his cigarette on the candle's flame. She murmured welcome through her drags. "So you're not here to check if I'm a whorish crackhead who's heat got cut off?" she asked between her teeth. This was about as relaxed as she was going to get around him. He smiled crookedly. "No. That's from RENT. I'm here to escape from _your _mother and father," he replied, taking a drag of the white nicotine stick. He noticed how she was drinking from the steel flask. "Can I?" he asked, gesturing to the flask.

Kent felt like she was abandoning her grandfather's memory, but she handed him the flask anyway, accompanied with a, "As long as you don't get wasted easy."

He smiled crookedly, and then sipped long on her flask. _Her flask. _She smiled a little, thinking that he'd always have the taste of her lips on his… and vice versa. "I don't, love," he replied, handing her back the flask. He was staring at her…with those scarily iridescent blue eyes…and everything seemed perfect. The darkness, the color of his hair, the soft haze of smoke, even the candlelight.

_The candlelight. _

Only then did she realize that the hot wax from the candle was dripping down into her fingers, slowly burning areas of the skin on her hands. Her prep team would have a fit. Otto must've noticed, since he began to knead away the wax that was slowly hardening on her pale hands. She blushed (but it might've not been seen, given the light of the candle) as he began to knead away the invisible wax on her hands. "Erm, Mr. Arkwright told me that trick. Helps the erm, circulation get back," he said softly, still kneading away the invisible wax. "I used to work with wax sculptures," he added.

"Oh," she said, taking her hand away. "Thanks."

He nodded and kept the candle away from her. She finished smoking, and stamped out her cigarette. She hid her flask-cigarette case in the folds of her skirt, and hopped from her little seat. A gust of wind must've blown through, since the candle's flame got extinguished. "Otto?" she asked, clutching her skirt. "Yeah?" asked Otto's voice close by. She fumbled in her skirt for her lighter, which she found, but it dropped to the floor. "You got a match?" she asked again, feeling around for her _friend_. "That was my last one," his voice replied calmly. She sighed, and then felt around for Otto. She bumped into a suitcase, a scarf, and then a sort of human flesh. She took it as Otto, and then whispered, "Otto?" A flame flickered on, and then she realized that Otto was up against her, quite literally, holding the silver lighter she dropped. "I have your lighter," he admitted silkily. "I can see that," she replied in a smaller voice. "I think they're expecting you," he said, taking her by the hand to the door, the flame flickering slightly. "I don't think I should even be here, honestly," she said softly. "Then stay here. If you want, I can stay with you, and tell someone that we left," he offered, the flame in his face once more, illuminating his features. She was thinking of going back out, making her parents proud. But of course, a part of her wanted just to stay here, being as true and real as possible, even if that meant smoking and drinking with a boy.

"Will you please?"

"I will, Kent, I will."

Otto proceeded out of the closet discreetly, and whispered to Wing what he needed. Wing nodded, and disappeared to tell the social headcounter.

"I've told them. As of now, you can stay as long as you want here."

"Thank you. Will you stay with me please?"

"If you wish."

"Yes, I wish you'd stay with me."

"Then you have me."

**

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Aww. Isn't that cute?**

**Well it better be, I spent a full three hours just thinking about what to write.**

**R&R, it'll make my life **_**so **_**much easier.**


	22. His Love Is Her Drug

**Ah, sorry for the long wait, but I was really distracted these past few days.**

**Plus the fact I'm a chronic procrastinator. ^_^**

**As I've said countless times before, I own my OCs only.**

_

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Two Years Later…_

"DAMN YOU TO HELL, MALPENSE!!!"

"I'M BRINGING YOU DOWN WITH ME!!!"

"OVER MY COLD DEAD BODY!"

Otto laughed boisterously. He was smothered in paint of different colors, and his previously immaculate white hair was now streaked with black.

Kent laughed too. She was enveloped in more colors of paint, her blond hair now streaked with red.

The pair were now precisely nineteen years of age, and a lot had changed. No longer did Kent freak when Otto would press his lips against hers, and Otto got used to the fact that the blond was a lot like the twin brother he wanted when he was a lot younger.

Kent had her hair cut really short, and everyone seemed to receive the fact very nicely. Her blond hair now feathered over her ears, and her long bangs always hung in her grey eyes.

"I'm going to wash off now, Kent," he said, putting a hand to his hair. "Yeah, me too. Do the housekeeper a favor and pick up your art stuff, _prodigy_," she replied with a sneer.

He made a face in protest, but the Russian already disappeared into her room. He sighed and picked up each brush, washed them off, and returned them to the holder. He took the newspapers protecting the floor off, and took his large canvas off the wall. He took the paint box and brought all these things into his own room.

His cellphone buzzed. He got a plastic bag to use as a glove, so the phone wouldn't get paint on it.

It was a text—a group message, to be exact—directed at the Cardinals and a few others, being warned about something _really _special happening tomorrow.

He looked at the sender. _Oh, only Wing. Nothing to worry about._

_Hmm, _he wondered. _What could this be?_

He deleted the text and showered off.

He dressed in a simple white shirt, black jeans, and some trainers of the same color of his pants. The Blackberry buzzed again. It was an unregistered number.

He opened the text message.

_Hey, if you're reading this, you must be one hell of a boy. So I've got a boyfriend, Wing, yeah sure. He's hot and all, but I'm not one to play steady. Text me back if you're taking me seriously. XOXO, CH. _

He held back laughter. Claire Haruno, the easiest bitch on the face of the Earth, texting him, Otto Malpense, the loser? He _must _be dreaming.

He went out of the room, half-laughing, eager to show his "brother" the message. She sat on the chaise, feet propped up, and earphones plugged in her ears. Her black t-shirt hung on her willowy frame, and her black shorts disappeared beneath it. How did he know this? For two years, she repeated the house clothing combination over and over with different pieces.

"Kent, dude, you'll never guess," he began, but she wasn't answering. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Dammit, Madeleine, take the damned things out of your ears!" He swore. She gingerly took the earphones out. "Would it kill you to use my first name? You already know how much I hate my middle one," she said calmly, pausing the song.

"Precisely," Otto replied with a smirk. "What do you want now, Otto? I was listening to music," Kent sighed, browsing the song list on her phone. "Here. Read, suppress your laughter, then give it back," he handed her the PDA. She scanned the message with no apparent curiosity (from the expression on her face) and then doubled back and read it slowly.

She passed him the phone. "No big deal, Otto. It's really not that funny. Or rather, it's not funny at all. The whore wants to get laid, and to her, that kind of love is like a drug. She needs her fix or all hell will break loose." She stuffed the earphones back in her ears. The music pumped out of the earphones, indicating that the volume was too loud.

"Will it kill you to turn down the volume?" He said, pulling the bloody things out of her ears. He noticed the song playing. "Erm, is that from The Rolling Stones?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I didn't think anyone knew anything from Mick Jagger other than his name. Guess I was wrong."

"You could say," Otto continued. "Mick Jagger's like a rock god to some people. I just think they have wicked songs."

"Not bad for a boy who fiddles with finger paints," she replied slyly.

---Elsewhere---

"That was very stupid, to be quite honest," said Wing, picking the bell peppers off his slice of pizza. "It was a joke, Wing, don't need to get all testy," replied Claire, gingerly taking a teaspoonful of the frozen yogurt.

"Lucky he's got a sense of humor and a girl," Wing shot back, taking a bite. "A rather dry sense of humor, I might add," she said again, undoing her hair. It rippled down her back in curls.

She winked.

"Don't you dare try that trick on me, Clarissa," Wing said in a gravelly voice. "Who said I was tricking _you_?" she asked, crossing her legs. "What now, there's an invisible boy you quite naturally want to have?" Wing offered with a smirk.

"You have to stop hanging out with that Otto person. It seems his dry sense of humor has rubbed off on you," she replied vainly. She was being quite vain at the moment, checking her reflection in a compact mirror and taking away any imperfections.

Wing, mind you, had gotten _ridiculously _tall over the past two years. He was about two times taller than Claire, whom, mind you, had also gotten taller.

Obviously her growth spurt wouldn't match the one of the great Wing Fanchu.

"I don't care, to be quite frank with you, Miss Haruno," he replied calmly, closing the impending argument between the two Japanese.

"It's quite alright, Mr. Fanchu. For I don't care much about you either," she said tranquilly. That was but the poker face in words.

In truth, Clarissa Alison Archer Haruno _did care_.

**

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Ah, a cliffie.**

**Admit it, you miss my cliffhangers.**

**R&R.**


	23. James Dean in Blue Jeans

**Ah, another product of my procrastination. **

**We left at Miss Haruno's caring about Mister Fanchu, no? Good then. If you are, like the few other people who follow this story, curious what the surprise is, why don't you scroll down? That's a good reader. **

**All I own are my OCs, kapishe?**

_

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Close your eyes and I'll kiss you  
Tomorrow I'll miss you  
Remember I'll always be true_

Innokentiy grumbled in her sleep and felt around for the snooze button on her phone. _Note to self, lessen volume of alarm clock to medium loud. _

She swore under her breath as she got out of bed, turning off the alarm and looking at her phone for any messages. On que, her prep team popped up out of nowhere and began the routine they were doing for the past two years; bubble bath, shave the legs, groom the eyebrows, comb the hair, towel off, robe, then makeup.

As they combed her hair and talked over her head, she scrolled through all her text messages. One from Anna, her cousin, telling her to introduce her to the guy from Italy; two from her friend Constantine, the cooking major; and lastly one from her mother.

Someone said, "Okay, you're done." Then Kent looked up. Nothing much, just her hair was all shiny but kind of messy, like she just rolled out of bed; and they made her look like a girl. _Just great._

Nadya entered after she'd dressed in simple black jeans and a black graphic tee with a message in Russian. "Alright, make them fall in love with your tomboy demeanor. Make them choose you over Claire's girly charms. Make them cry, if you want," Nadya added after Kent looked slightly confused.

Kent nodded. Nadya gave her a small smile. "Go get 'em, girl."

Kent stood up, and walked out of her bedroom door. She made the general cup of coffee and took a sip. "I'll meet you there, Otto!" She said as she exited the suite.

She tore through the traffic on J. Dean Boulevard (where the Unterkunft was located), and arrived quite quickly at the Undervisning, where today's classes were being held.

She slung her white messenger bag over her shoulder, and walked to her first class that Thursday morning, Drama.

Clad in her red shirt, dark blue skinny jeans, and black Converse Jack Purcell sneakers, she sat down on one of the back seats in the auditorium.

She flipped her Hiptop open and started to write a text to Otto.

_Otto! Where the hell are you? Lu hasn't come yet, and I'm alone here with the Cardinals! Get your artistic ass over here before class starts!_

She hit send, after being satisfied by the message she sent her friend. Much to her delight, Otto arrived a few minutes later, hair still damp and black leather jacket on arm.

"What's with the leather?" she asked, running her eyes over it. "Stylist forced me to wear it. Desiree said my white shirt wasn't enough," he replied, putting the jacket over the said garment.

"Well, you can't blame her. If you wear the jacket, you look like James Dean. Yeah, James Dean in Blue Jeans," she teased with a smirk. "Ha ha ha. Very funny," Otto replied sarcastically, sitting down beside her.

A petite strawberry blond came through the door, and rushed over to where Otto and Kent sat. "Hey, nice jacket."

"See Otto, even Lu thinks it doesn't look bad," Kent said, forcing the jacket on her friend. "Tss. I don't like wearing leather jackets, period," he spat, looking through his email on the Blackberry.

Three claps thundered through the auditorium, which was usually code for them to stand and show some sort of acknowledgment for Miss—no, to be accurate—Mrs. Richelieu.

Their drama teacher sat on the edge of the stage, and one could see her star pupil, Laura Brand, take the front seat nearest to her. Beside their teacher was her signature oversize orange Hermes tote.

Mrs. Richelieu was known as Miss Gonzales when she was young, and she had a kind smile, an oval-shaped face, and twinkling green eyes. Miss Gonzales had married a French actor, and rumor stated that their daughter, Charlotte, was the same Charlotte Richelieu that starred in many blockbuster films. The thing that was so great about Miss Gonzales-Richelieu was she called all her students—past and present—by their nicknames.

She ushered her students to sit closer with her delicate hands, beckoning them to not be afraid to sit nearer.

"Otto, Kent, Lu, it's alright, you three can come sit here as well," she said with her gentle voice and her smile. They got up took the remaining seats in the sixth row, and Miss Gonzales beamed once she'd gathered the Alpha class successfully without argument.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Now, to start off today's class, I'm going to announce something that concerns the whole Alpha class," she began, searching inside her bag for something. She pulled out a thick book that was the size of regular paper.

"I'm going to read out some names, and if your name is called, come here and take one of these—" She put up the book-like thing. "And whatever name is highlighted, that is the role you are going to play. You see, Alpha, there will be an awards ceremony for the class who carried their field of art out the best. While the other sections—Eta, Omega, et cetera—have gotten dancing or writing or painting—" Otto scowled at the truth that they wouldn't be painting, "You are the lucky ones that got acting. And since some of you already have singing backgrounds, which we know from your info sheets, you have the gift that is playing the main characters. I remind you all that we carefully deliberated who plays who, and we are being completely fair in our decision. I call out your name, you get your script and your prop. Any questions?"

"Miss Gonzales?" asked Shelby Trinity while she raised her hand. "Yes, Shelby?" The American stood up. "What _is _the title of the musical?"

Miss Gonzales smiled. "You have to guess after we get our main characters." The curious American sat down.

"Alright, since no one seems to have any more questions, I'll jump right in. Starting with Aaron DuPont," said Miss Gonzales, handing a redheaded boy a skirt and a drum, along with the script.

"Shelby Trinity," was handed a knife with her script.

A few other names were called.

"Otto Malpense," said Ms. Gonzales, handing Otto a pair of glasses, a scarf, and his script. He went back to his seat with these in his hands, and once he'd sat down, he flicked to the cast page.

There, highlighted in blue, was the name _Mark Cohen_.

"Kent Thomas," and she walked to the stage, received her script, a pair of high heels, and a briefcase. At her seat, she flicked to the cast page. Otto surreptitiously peeked over her shoulder.

The name _Joanne Jefferson_ was highlighted in yellow.

"Claire Haruno," was handed a candle, a pair of handcuffs, and her script. Wing got a guitar pick with his.

Laura was given a wireless microphone and a rose with hers, which made Otto curious about what the musical was.

"So, Shelby, do you know what the musical is yet?"

"I know, Miss Gonzales-Richelieu. It's RENT."

**

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Ta-Da!**

**R&R, it's hard to do all that.**


	24. Marilyn Monroe & Brigitte Bardot Forever

**Sorry, woops, haven't been updating. *grins***

**My apologies. **

**Right, it was RENT, am I correct?**

**Right, now it's time for Innokentiy's POV.**

**Still don't own.**

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I still haven't updated my story on that online writing site. I really don't have time nowadays, the play being staged and all. Sometimes the only thing I have time to do is to eat.

Oh yeah, have I mentioned how brutal rehearsals are?

Every single day from last week (when Miss Gonzales-Richelieu broke the news) I have a steady schedule: drama, dance, singing, and that all over again. On certain days Miss Gonzales-Richelieu collaborates with Miss Leon, setting storyline and rhythm to music; honing both skills, hitting two birds with one, _hostile_ stone.

And of course, wardrobe sent my stylist into frenzy. Kira read the script through and through, absorbing any trace of costume. But Miss G said that they'd be collaborating with the advanced fashion class for costumes, so Kira relaxed eventually.

The only fun part of it all is the hair.

I get to do the one thing Otto would never let me.

I STEAL HIS HAIR GEL.

Nah, I'm kidding. But seriously, for a boy with naturally spiky hair, he does have a lot of hair gel and stuff. The other day, Faina made my hair defy gravity. It spiked upwards and to the right, like Elly Jackson's hair. (1) Y'know, La Roux? Never mind.

The past few weeks, each of us has been immersed in our character. When I'm not reading up on the actual law, I see Otto messing around with a video camera. Or when I come with Otto and hang out with Wing, I see the Japanese dude composing and everything. Really _feeling _the emotions of the late great Roger Davis.

And me? I have to immerse myself into law and Ivy League and everything. Plus, in rehearsal, I have to actually stare at girls. Laura in particular, but it's fine; she's a lot prettier than me, and she doesn't look like a girl Otto.

Otto and Wing have no problem acting like best friends: they practically are. I mean, Otto can talk about "big boy stuff" with Wing and I just have to get used to it.

What I really hate though, is dress rehearsal.

I find it weird, seeing Wing without his trademark ponytail. Or Otto in glasses and a scarf. And as much as I hate to admit that I look at Claire, her in handcuffs.

I don't like wearing heels and everything, and I certainly don't like dancing in them either. Yep, I have to tango with Otto. In heels, much less.

And I can't do that while Otto looks like Clark Kent if he bleached his hair and didn't know he was Superman. (2) I mean, how can I think all, "Holy crap, this is my girlfriend's ex-boyfriend and he's telling me Maureen's cheating," if my mind's all, "Dude, you look like a nerd."

I can't stop laughing at him when he wears the glasses. Seriously, I can't. It's too funny. Back on topic, today is a drama-storyline day.

Have I told you that they separate the boys and girls for dance class? I guess not. Usually I have classes with the boys because I have to 'further refine your androgyny'.

It's weird: other boys stare at you because there's nothing else to stare at. Usually the males get the hip hop and the girls get the rest of the crap.

Yeah, but we already had dance class, so all that's left for us to do is singing. I bloody _hate_ singing. I've memorized every song I have a part in by fault, and then I have massive LSS.

Ha, you probably don't know what LSS is, do you? Well I'll gladly tell you: LSS stands for Last Song Syndrome. Y'know, the last song you heard is stuck in your head for the whole day and you can't stop singing it?

Since dance is held in the studio most of the time and drama and music share the auditorium, in between periods you have to walk back and forth the two places.

IT'S IRRITATING.

Even more if your backpack is full of heavy legal paraphernalia and your synthesizer.

I really did want to learn (but Mum and Dad didn't approve and blah blah blah), so I asked that dude from Barbados to teach me how to play. I really do love synthpop. To tell you the truth, I still don't know why my parents didn't want me to play the synth.

Alright, back on topic. On certain days, when Prof. Pike is just plain tired of screaming at us (to do the song again) he lets us get some sort of instrument and play (sing, in other words) any song we know how to play on an instrument. He's actually cool that way, allowing any song, no matter the lyrics. I think that's how he lets us exercise our creative drives.

Today was one of those days.

I was walking to the auditorium with Lulu (I like annoying Luminita with that nickname, so what) and she was talking about her job in the play. She's part of the band/orchestra, and Pike made Kielo conductor for some reason, and Lulu really hates her.

Well, to be really honest, I hate Kielo Virtanen too. I mean, hello, she's already pretty, she's already kick-ass, and she's already a rich kid, she just _has to be_ bitchy.

I mean, the other day, I was sporting my LEGENDARY Elly Jackson-style hair, and she said I, "looks like a dickless chav," so you know what I said to that bitch? "Well at least I'm not a whore—woops, since I'm a 'dickless chav', a man-whore."

Yeah, point one for yours truly and none to Kiki Virtanen.

Have I mentioned how much she's like Claire? I mean, they're like those girls from that movie I watched the other day. I believe the film was called _Mean Girls._

Don't get me started on Claire. She's exactly like that chick (sorry, kind of in character here) in _Mean Girls_, Regina George. She controls her faithful bitches (Kielo, Shelby, & Laura) to do everything she wants.

I passed them once in the coffee shop, and they were discussing their outfits for the week. Can you believe that? And because the bloody barista took her sweet time making my double-shot Dark Cherry, I got to listen (surreptitiously, of course) while I waited for my drink.

"Monday is blue," Claire was looking straight at Kielo, who was making a note in her Treo. "Tuesday is green," Shelby added, reading the nutrition information brochure. "Wednesday is pink," Laura concluded in the strangely non-valley girl voice. The Finnish girl looked pained by the suggestion as she looked up from her Treo. "You can't be serious," Kielo said, her eyes widening in horror. "I'm very serious, Kielo," Claire began authoritatively. "This group has certain rules that all must adhere to. If you follow these guidelines, those which can surely insure your position in this group for _life_."

Kielo's eyes resembled dinner plates at the offer. "Of course, C. I'll follow." The two other girls smirked triumphantly. Laura didn't seem so keen on Kielo's obedience, from the look on her face. "S? I have a question," Kielo asked in a soft voice. "Sure, K. Ask away," Shelby folded up the brochure and put it in her expensive Prada bag (don't ask me how I know, I just do). "Does Wing have to follow the dress code rules too?"

The three other girls giggled girlishly, like it was something an oblivious child would suggest. "Hell to the no!" Shelby giggled. "Wing is in a whole entire league of his own, K. He wears _whatever _he wants, _whenever_ he wants," Laura said once she caught her breath. "Simply because he looks good in everything," Claire added with a sip of her frap. I wanted to hear the rest of Valley Girl Speak 101, but the barista called my name already.

That bloody barista couldn't even read my name properly because of her crappy handwriting. "In-Oh-Can-tea?" she even said that out loud, so I was all, "It's Innokentiy," with my full Russian accent while I grabbed my drink. Yeah, I enjoy those little personal triumphs that happen spur-of-the-moment.

Drat, I'm getting off-topic again. Sorry. So, Lulu was going on about how whiny and bitchy Kielo was while we were going to the auditorium.

When we finally got there, Claire Haruno was sitting at the edge of the stage with her BFF's, Shelby and Kielo. Lately, I've noticed that Laura doesn't hang out with them as much as they used to. They were talking and probably flirting with that Italian dude. He was in my advance writing class, so I knew him.

"Oi Giuseppe!" I waved to him, and he waved back with a crooked smile. He's pretty good-looking; dark, blue-black hair that's all wavy; plus those really nice green eyes. He's funny too; he makes the funniest pieces that even glum old Nero (with his moisturizer though, he looks young) cracks up.

"Innokentiy-mo!" To my surprise, he came over and gave me a hug. "Who is this?" he asked with his natural Italian accent, looking at Lulu. "Luminita Funar, meet Giuseppe DiNozzo. He's in my lit class," I said quickly, while Giuseppe was already looking at Lulu. "I have heard of you. You're a very good violinist," Giuseppe smiled at Lulu. "Thank you. My friend Innokentiy says that you're a very good writer," Lulu remarked politely. "I'm not so good, Kent is much better than I. But I want to hear you play, they say you are much more inspired if there are beautiful things around you—and I've been doing badly with Claire around," he said, throwing a dirty look at Claire. "Yeah. Sure. Why not," Luminita agreed. "Do you know that quaint café on M. Monroe Street?" he asked, his eyes shining. "Yeah, I love it there," she said in reply. "Great. See you at eight, Luminita," Giuseppe gave one final crooked grin to Luminita before going to his friend.

"Luminita and Giuseppe, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," I teased in a sing-songy voice once Giuseppe was out of earshot. "Oh, hush up, Otto," she snapped in response. I stuck my tongue out (looking back that was immature) and then Otto appeared with Wing at his side.

"I heard my name," he said, glancing at Lu. "Your name is very common," I said smartly. "I was referring to girl Otto," Luminita spat, pointing to me. Wing let out a small chuckle. "Well, before I heard my name, I heard something along the lines of 'Luminita and Giuseppe' and 'K-I-S-S-I-N-G'. Can someone tell me about that?" he asked, looking at me now. "Otto, you don't interfere in girl matters," Wing said calmly. "Because if you do, you're either nosy or gay. You're most likely the latter," Luminita added with a grin.

I let out a laugh. What? I couldn't control it. It was just too _damn_ funny. Wing chuckled again. "Where is Wing Fanchu?" asked a voice that rang through the auditorium and bounced off its walls. It was Pike. Wing raised his hand. "Oh, there you are, Fanchu!" said Pike, grabbing Wing and dragging him to the stage.

"It's your lucky day, Alphas. Instrument day," Pike began, dragging Wing unto the stage. "And Fanchu is going to select which one of you is going first."

We all stared at him in anticipation, almost not breathing. "Russia."

Yeah, during rehearsals I get called either by my surname or by the country I'm representing. Everyone gets that treatment, except maybe Claire or Wing, seeing as they're both representing Japan.

I stand up reluctantly, grabbing the synth out of my bag and making my way to the stage. Kira wasn't so strict today, so she let me wear black skinny jeans and a turquoise shirt with some Chuck Taylors.

I plugged it into the outlet and starting playing.

"_Tonight out on the streets, I'm gonna follow you, tell you all about a scene that you would kill for. You're gonna love what's burning right in front of you. But you won't see it by the light of the sun."_

I saw Otto grin wickedly as I continued. You see, he has an uncanny ability to understand the lyrics even if there are layers and layers of accompaniment.

And even if we're not really that close, Wing gave me a small smile as I descended the stage and went back to my seat without getting into a fight with Claire.

"Well, Fanchu? Who's next?" asked Pike irritatedly. I really don't know why he's like that sometimes, maybe because he's the one screaming at us and annoy us to do it again. Wing looked around with no apparent interest. "France."

"There's two of them, Fanchu," Pike snapped. "Er. Oh. Sorry sir. Greece, then," Wing replied quickly. The boy from Greece, I must say, is cute. He had sandy colored hair and charming hazel eyes, and when he talked, it seemed to poetically romantic even if he was just saying hello.

AND HIS VOICE. It was smooth, like moonlight translated into music. I could tell that he was a jazz person, from what instrument he played. The bass guitar.

Otto elbowed me. "What?" I asked, irritated by the interruption of my—er, admiration—of the Grecian boy. "Should I get you a cup? You're making a river of drool on the floor," he said sarcastically. "I can control myself, thank you very much," I replied snidely. He sneered, like he knew something I didn't.

After a while, we were dismissed, and I finally plucked up the courage to ask what his name was. I dallied as my friends started to leave. Once Otto and Luminita were out, I decided to catch up to him. He was about to leave.

I tapped him lightly on his shoulder.

"Yes?" he looked me in the eye, and I saw how effervescent they seemed. "I don't believe we've met," I said with a slight smile. "We have, actually. But nevertheless, I'm Anargyros Xylander. I'm usually in front of you in the line for coffee," he replied sheepishly. A forgotten light bulb flicked on in my brain. "When they call your name, it's Gyro. Cool," I really was amazed. His name was already cool, his nickname was even cooler.

"See you around. It's Innokentiy, right?" he slung his bass over his shoulder. I nodded. He smiled and left. I ran outside, slinging my backpack over my shoulder as I exited.

"There you are!" said a familiar high-pitched voice. Luminita sat in the passenger seat of Wing's car. "Yeah, here I am," I replied calmly. "Don't let Claire catch you in that seat, Lu. That's her special seat," I added with a smirk. Luminita stuck her tongue out at me. I rolled my eyes. "See you round, guys. I've got and errand to run," I lied. Honestly, I'm just going home and try to get some shut eye. Oh yeah, and soak myself in the bath tub to soothe my sore limbs.

"Aww. Well, I guess we will, Clark," Luminita smirked. She played around with my nickname a lot, actually referring to Superman's nerdy alter ego. "Wing and I are going to the guitar shop on B. Bardot."

I nodded, watching the car peel out of the driveway. "You don't have an errand to run, do you, Kent?" asked a familiar voice. "Nah. I'm too tired to participate in recreational activities," I replied exasperatedly. "Looks like someone's been spending too much time with her nose in the law," Otto took my law book (that hug precariously out of my bag at the time) and peered into it. "No wonder you're tired. All these Miranda Rights and Bill of Attainder. Your brain must be fried."

I frowned. Not only was he interfering with my much-deserved relaxation time, he was also invading my character study! The nerve. "If you must know what I'm going to be doing, I'm going to soak in the tub with my law book. I am going to try and relax after a long day. Satisfied, Otto?" I snapped.

"No, not really. If you are just going to do that, why don't you and I have a cup of coffee?" He asked. Sigh. I really wish I could just decline, but those bloody sponsorships were practically pinned on my ass. "Yeah, sure. Why not. But I'll just put my stuff back in the dorm," I replied with a half-grin. Inside, I really want to retire for the day, but as I said, those sponsorships are on the line.

"Awesome. Meet you there, I guess," he pecked me quickly on the cheek before hopping into his waiting Corvette. He drove off, becoming a glimmering silver beacon in the mess of traffic.

I started up the engine and stepped on the accelerator. I really didn't want to do this.

**

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**

**(1) Elly Jackson's hair is just plain AWESOME. I really do love her hair.**

**(2) Clark Kent is a good-looking nerd, mind you.  
**

**I hope that somewhat stifled your hunger for a new chapter since my last one. Again, I'm terribly sorry I haven't been updating.**

**Ah, the cliffie. :3  
**

**R&R if you deem it appropriate.**


	25. The Blow From A Revelation

**I got a review for the last chapter, and it sparked an idea that I never expected to come. (Thank you, Ally!)**

**Still don't own here. **

**Regular Point of View. **

**Time for a twist, readers. *cackles maliciously***

* * *

"Oi Wing, I'm gonna check out some violins in the back," said Luminita, leaving Wing inside the guitar shop. His cellphone gave an unexpected ring.

"Wing Fanchu here," he examined a Gibson model as he answered the Nokia. "Wing, it's Claire. Something arrived for you at the dorm. I'm here now and I signed for it. I think it's important," replied the girl's voice on the other end. "Alright, I'm coming," he said, putting the electric guitar down.

"Lu, I've got to go," he said a little loudly, so Luminita could hear him. "Yeah, sure. I'll take a cab or something," Luminita replied calmly. He left the shop, hopping into his silver Bentley. He didn't know that the island had taxis.

Arriving at the Unterkunft, he took the elevator. He took his key card from his pocket and slid it into the scanner. Claire sat on the countertop, biting her nails, looking worried.

"What arrived for me?" he asked quickly. She pointed to a brown envelope that was on the coffee table. He got a letter opener and slid it under the flap, exposing a white photocopy.

Curious, he took it out of the envelope. It was his birth certificate, but some very important elements were changed. There were two other pieces of paper, but he decided to read this one first.

_Name: Wing Fanchu _

_Date and time of Birth: April 27, 1992, 2:00 AM_

_Father: Mao Fanchu _

_Mother: Mei Fanchu_

He didn't bother reading the other information, but those already shocked him. He knew his parents were Isamu and Mizuki, not Mao and Mei. The certificate was surely a fake.

He read the other piece of paper. It was an adoption certificate this time.

_Name: Wing Masaru Fanchu_

_Biological Parents: Mao & Mei Fanchu_

_Adoptive Parents: Isamu & Mizuki Yamamoto_

_Current Age: 9 years old_

He was torn between bewilderment and curiosity, but he noticed that the third piece of paper was merely a letter.

_It hurts to know the truth, doesn't it, Wing Fanchu? Or should I say, Wing Yamamoto. Didn't see this coming, did you? Fine, comfort yourself by the thought that this isn't real. But I know, deep in your mind, you knew that_ _Isamu and Mizuki were never your family. Didn't you notice that your eyes are different from your supposed parents? Or the fact that you look nothing like your so-called father? I know that you have noticed these things. The eyes of your "father" are green, your "mother" blue. And you? They're brown. You must be curious why your new family's name is like your own. Well, when you spent a whole year with them, missing your real parents, they changed their surnames to Fanchu, to make you feel comfortable, and make you think Mei and Mao are just the old names of Mizuki and Isamu. They thought you'd forget entirely about your old life with Mao and Mei. That's why they panicked when they saw that you remembered about Otto, or should I say, Oliver. They thought it would jog your memory and make you rebel against them. And why would you do that, you ask? After they were the ones who raised you to be the man you are today? Why, they pleaded with Mao and Mei to give you to them. When you were eight, Mei took you to a playground, and Mizuki saw you. At that time, Mizuki could not get pregnant. But there you were, an already perfect Japanese child. Thus, after a year of pleading with Mei and Mao, you were formally adopted. Little did the Yamamoto's know that Mizuki would get pregnant after four years. Isamu suggested that Mizuki give you back, but she had grown too attached to you to let you go. So, now the Yamamoto-Fanchu's had two children. Your real mother loved you to death, and she did not want to give you up. Mao and she already had a perfect life with you. But they saw how committed Mizuki and Isamu would be to raise you properly, so they consented; on one condition. According to the real Fanchu's, you were going to recognize them as your real parents, and you were to communicate with them regularly, to know how you were doing. Well, Mizuki and Isamu forgot about that one condition, and practically erased your memories of the parents who loved and cared for you for nine years. Now, Mao and Mei saw you being interviewed on TV, and Mei recognized you instantly. Your parents wanted to contact Mizuki and Isamu, wanting to find out why you weren't communicating with them, but Isamu got a new number. They quit their jobs at a large pharmaceutical company many years ago, when I was a mere chemist. Tsubasa, your mother—your real mother , she said that if you ever needed anything, you could call this number. I can't say much more, but all I can say is that Isamu and Mizuki have a lot of explaining to do. _

There was no name at the bottom to signify the sender. He stared at the small, printed numbers at the bottom of the page. He looked to Clarissa. Now she held an envelope similar to his, but as she read the contents, her brows furrowed together.

"Wing, don't call me Clarissa, please?" she said weakly. "Why?" he asked, curiosity eating away at him. "As it turns out, Stella made the move to change my name to Clarissa Alison. Kathryn Archer—my mother—named me Leila Claire. Stella Renee didn't like it, so she reprinted my birth certificate to make my name Clarissa Alison, for her two best friends at the time." He nodded, not seeing the thing perturbing Claire. "I'll just make a call," he said, taking a step towards his bedroom door.

He dialed the number.

For a few, painful seconds, he waited in anxiety.

_What if Mei changed the number? Worse, what if someone stole her phone and sold it? This is a terrible idea. I'll hang up if Mei won't answer after three rings. _

One.

Two.

_Three. _

"Hello?" asked a gentle female voice on the other end. He was in shock. His real mother was really on the other end. "Hello?" Mei asked again. "Hello? Is this Mei Fanchu?" he asked finally. "Why yes, it is," he heard traces of a smile in her voice. "Do you happen to have a son? Or a daughter?" he wanted to know if he had any siblings. "I have a son, and a daughter. My son is away, though. He's at art school. My daughter is asleep. To whom am I speaking to?" replied Mei. "W-Wing. Wing Fanchu," he stuttered. He never stuttered, well, not usually. "Oh, hello son. I saw you on television the other day. My, you've grown so tall! I see that you've been talking with Oliver again—or is it Otto? Anyway, it's good that you're friends again. Do you want to talk to your papa, Tsu?" replied Mei casually.

Wing smiled. It wasn't as if he'd been gone for nine years without talking with her, it was like she was always there and was waiting for him to call. No hysterics, no tears of joy, no anger toward the Yamamoto family. "No, it's alright, Mother. How are you and father?" he asked conversationally. "We're fine, Tsu. I'm sorry I must cut this conversation short, Tsu, but I must get to work. I'm going to save this number, Tsu, so I know you're calling me. Good luck for your play, Tsu, me and papa will come. I miss you, I love you," said Mei quickly, lingering on her last sentence. She cut the call off. He did the same, saving the number in his phone, a beat-up Nokia.

_Mother_

Feeling irritated, he deleted Mizuki Yamamoto's number, saved under _Mother_ as well.

He smiled to himself, the discovery of his true parents finally answering all the questions in his head since childhood.

_Mama, why are my eyes different from yours and papa's?_

_Father, how come I am taller than you both, when I am only fourteen?_

_Yuri, stop it. I am your brother and you cannot do anything about it. _

He smirked.

_Now you can, Yuri. _

When he was 13, he hated his parents for everything. Not letting him play guitar and piano, sending him to judo class instead of music. His father said it was unbecoming for a young man of his age to be playing such an instrument. During that time, he even questioned his blood. He knew he was right at that time, thinking that such a person—who looked nothing like him and was disgusted by everything he believed in—was not at all of his blood.

"Wing? Wing! Wing! TSUBASA!" snapped Claire angrily. He returned to earth, so to speak, from the recesses of his memory. "Yes, Claire?" he asked with no particular expression on his face.

"Ottokins the loser is at the door," she said, frowning as she said 'loser'.

He walked to the door.

**

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CLIFFIE.** :3

**Sorry I haven't updated, I wasn't allowed to use the computer. ^_^**

**Please have mercy, readers, for the late filler/update. **


	26. Just A Poor, Confused, Misunderstood Gal

**Not updating, again! X_X**

**My apologies. **

**Now, where were we?**

**Oh right, the whole revelation thing, which is completely focused on Wing. If you've wanted to see more of him, you got your wish.**

**This note is completely useless, but I'm doing it anyway so you have something to scroll down!**

**Hey legal sharks! Yeah, I'm talking to you! **

**I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING RECOGNIZABLE FROM THE HIVE SERIES. ALL RECOGNIZABLE AFFLIATES AND TERMS ARE OWNED BY THE ONE AND ONLY MARK WALDEN.**

**Beat that! :P**

**Oh yeah, sorry if I haven't updated in so long. I've had the case of writer's block. But I think you can classify this one as a filler. ^_^**

_

* * *

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?_

_Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality._

_Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see_

_I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy_

'_Cause I'm easy come, easy go, little high, little low_

_Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me_

Kent paused her phone from playing the entirety of _Bohemian Rhapsody. _Saving her file, clicking her pen, and submitting it virtually to the headmaster, she had finished the last homework for the whole school year in literary arts class. Although they weren't allowed to leave until they finished (or won, preferably) the summer season would affect the island, they were still permitted to call a "summer break".

For their final assignment, they were supposed to write a full novel, and the novel being completely original, not "fanfiction". Innokentiy had first been dumbfounded about what her topic would be.

But at last, she had finished it.

Primarily, it was supposed to be about a sarcastic, misunderstood, confused, and bespectacled thirteen-year-old (which was what she was at that age). But as she started, she noticed the glitches, and more importantly, the market appeal.

Why market appeal, you ask?

As prize for the best novel, Nero would send it to the mainland (wherever that was), have it published, and the author immunity from going home.

Kent had revised and edited her manuscripts for countless times. Firstly, what sensible person would read an almost-biographical book without a hint of romantic instances? Even she at that age wouldn't buy the book. Secondly, what would make someone buy such a book if there was nothing special about the character? Third, and most importantly, would anyone _care_ to read it?

Now, she was completely finished. No more glitches, no more woes, no more panic.

Her main character, which she named Parthenope, was plain: brown hair, brown eyes, boyish build, even glasses. But Parthenope had photographic memory, and she was sure that someone would like this girl. Parthenope was a sketch artist, which having a photographic memory helped with.

Seeing the confirmation email from Dr. Nero, she let Freddie Mercury sing in her ears once more of a poor boy who shot a man.

Clad in her father's shirt and her mother's shorts, she left her bedroom to sit in the lounge. Innokentiy looked out into the setting sun. _What a sight._

She stopped the song entirely, and unplugged the earbuds. _Wonder what Otto's doing. _

Knocking silently on her roommates' door, she heard the clatter of wood and the swearing of the boy. _Potty mouth, _she thought, smirking.

"Any breakthroughs?" she asked as he opened the door. As usual, Otto was wearing his "painting pants"—ratty ones that had splotches of color all over them, and a tie-dyed shirt.

"Did you hear 'Eureka!' and shuffling of feet? Then no," he snapped, swiping his hand (which was covered in paint) across his forehead. "Always so testy," she murmured, grabbing a washcloth and wiping away the paint coloring his pale forehead. "I have reason," he retorted once he was paint-free. "And that is?" They gathered up the newspapers lining the carpeted floor and threw them in the trash. "I don't barge in while you write, do I?"

"Actually, you do," she said matter-of-factly. "When was that?" Kent threw him a glare. "Remember when there was the loudest thunderstorm in island history, our power got knocked out, and we were running around with solar flashlights and solar-powered laptops?" He nodded. "I was writing, and it was dark. You barged in my room while thunder clapped, and I nearly dropped my laptop and suffered a mild heart-attack from the shock." Otto grinned. "Yeah, sorry about that, _Madeleine."_

Innokentiy rolled her eyes. "Never mind. So, what did the great Contessa prescribe as your final assignment?" He frowned. "We had to make a sculpture. Do you know how hard it is to take a chisel and make a statue of a meaningless chunk of stone? It took me _four bloody weeks. _And with rehearsals too! I was hardly inspired after a tiring day of singing a eulogy for the supposed death of Bohemia over and over." His expression softened. "And you?"

"A completely original novel," she grinned. "Not fanfiction, 365 pages of Innokentiy Volkov Thomas' _brilliant _ideas." He nodded, mildly impressed. "Can I read it?" She shook her head. "And why should you be any exception, Otto Malpense? You and the rest of the world can devour my work when it is _published._"

"Come on, at least the title."

"Alright then. You really want to know?"

"_Just a Poor, Confused, and Misunderstood Girl."_

**

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See! It's so short!**

**Barely even a thousand characters!**

**This is my most **_**disgraceful**_** filler. EVER.**


	27. Valedictory Speech

**OHMYEFFINGGAHD.**

**Yes, this is the final chapter. **

**For the last time, we have: **

**Innokentiy Madeleine Volkov Thomas, Russian Rep and Writer; Leila Claire 'Clarissa Alison' Archer Haruno, Japanese-American Designer; Luminita Yelizaveta Markov Funar, Romanian Violinist;Kielo Vilhelmiina Vainamanen Virtanen, Finnish Pianist**

_**Valedictory Speech, **_***bow*.**

* * *

The Alphas were ahead of the line, as usual. Most of them were clad in formal wear, and each item of their clothing represented something.

For Otto, the unusually effervescent silver tie represented each grueling night he spent capturing the essence and magic of the night sky.

As for Wing, the red dragon that wound itself around his forearm (which was covered by a sleeve) represented his anger and rebellion towards what they were there for.

All were smiling, but none were truly happy.

"Wing Fanchu," Raven passed Wing the golden statue of a piano as he ascended the staircase and Nero said his name for the speech.

The tall Asian was handsome, yes. He was also greatly talented. And highly intelligent. Thus, he did not like the nickname his Japanese-American friend made up.

_Ah, there goes the Holy Asian Deity of Hotness,_ Claire thought mischievously as she innocently adjusted her bracelet.

"Batch mates, friends, and respected guests," Wing began, looking around the room. True enough, there were several people in the front row that looked every bit important. "It is my pleasure and burden to welcome you to the awarding—or graduation—of Batch 2024."

"Each and every one of us has gone through six hard years of being hidden away from the natural world to stay on this island—an island paradise of which I have been enamored."

"Every corner on this island holds a place in my heart. From the Groves, the Unterkunft, and last but not the least, the Undervisning."

"But enough about the ground of which we stand upon. The people on this little paradise are an entirely different story."

"This graduating batch is nicknamed 'The Chiaroscuro Batch'. Why, you must all ask? Our students—my batch mates—are light and dark; hardworking and unpredictable."

"Chiaroscuro did not live until this day if it were not for Sroivas, the current seniors during the year 2019. Sroivas, when written down and put before a mirror, spells 'Saviors'. They certainly lived up to their title."

"Sroivas is probably no more, but so will we, Chiaroscuro," Wing glanced up from his paper and looked at the people in the audience. Some girls were already tearing up, and the slightly more restrained females looked blatantly at the podium.

"Let's all go back to those moments on the plane, Chiaroscuro. We boarded the most spacious jet plane we've ever seen, and found our way into a compartment where little did we know—our greatest friends and will-be allies would be found. I was in a compartment with a Scottish actress, an American dancer, a Russian writer, an English painter, and a member of my homeland, a Japanese clothes' designer."

"To this day, those same people are those I trust. If there comes a time when my life depended on someone other than myself, I would run first to my family, and then to these people, who have altered my life—destiny, even—just by meeting me on that plane."

"These people—and Chiaroscuro as a whole—have made my life different from what I thought my life would be before. Yes, I know it sounds cheesy. But before, all I dreamed for myself was to graduate out of a good college, get a job, and support myself."

"I did not dream of music, or being where I am at this very moment. I had never thought that I would become the Wing standing before you all today."

"Each student had some sort of skill that set them apart from the immediate public; be it a keen eye for fashion or strange attractions to the lure of literature, we all have something that makes us an _artist._"

"An artist has many definitions; it can mean the painters and sculptors who deal with visual art; or the singers and musicians who govern over the art of sound; the poets and novelists who grasp our imaginations and use these as tools of expression; even the designers who illustrate our wildest dreams and make it a reality that can be used in our lives."

"I feel no hatred for those who sent some of my friends away—but the only thing important to me is that _each and every one of us_—no matter what physical shell we may have lies a true and genuine artist."

"And no one—no force, no person, no _law_—can ever take that away from us."

~A Few Years Later~

The writer shook the artist's hand. "It's nice seeing you again, Mr. Malpense." The white-haired man behind the sketchbook nodded. "Likewise, Miss Volkov."

Innokentiy Thomas, known to the world as Isidora Volkov, was pleased at the sword drawing the white-haired man had made in a matter of seconds. Her novel needed a cover, and she trusted her old friend to give her an amazing sketch without even thinking.

"Thank you, Mr. Malpense, it was a pleasure working with you," the writer shook the man's hand as he left, packing up his things and leaving the sketch she'd be using as cover art.

"The pleasure is all mine, _Innokentiy_."

**

* * *

ACKNOWLEDGMENT TIME! :D**

**I'd like to thank a few dear friends of mine:**

**Nicole, for introducing me to The Hunger Games and getting me hooked on it and played a small part in the inspiration of this story (plus she's the one who told me all about the fashion aspect of it tied with the fame);**

**Allia, for staying hooked on Hunger Games (and staying up really late with me to text about it) with me while asking me what I did to cut out the gore; **

**Leila, for making me put her in this story too and somehow following;**

**OPKORS;**

**White Replica, for introducing me to H.I.V.E. in the first place. **

**Oh, these people who reviewed too: Tamminx, Ally, CandyPandaBear, PrecieuxDeLaRue, Wanderingnote, your friendly neighborhood cre, Harlow, and Divina. **

**As my closing statement:**

**It's better to fail at one thing rather than successfully doing nothing.**

**I THANK YOU. :D**


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